


Gabriel Gray is Dead

by FieryEclipse



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Blood and Violence, Episode: s04e04 Hysterical Blindness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Neither does ...Gabriel..., Peter doesn't know Sylar murdered Nathan, Romance, Save the world one person at a time, Slash, a fight to find the truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 149,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5449625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryEclipse/pseuds/FieryEclipse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylar is dead. Or at least Peter thinks so. Until he gets a phone call from a doctor in Baltimore, telling him that not only is Sylar alive, but he doesn't remember who he is. All he knows in the entire world is a name... Peter Petrelli...</p>
<p>Now entrusted with an amnesiac serial-killer and an elaborate conspiracy that's steadily beginning to unravel, Peter must undertake a fight to find the truth that will question everything he thinks he knows about the people he once called 'friend'. In the midst of a deadly game of love, loss and deception: friends will become enemies, old adversaries the only safe place to turn and broken souls might even find salvation along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From Smouldering Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Peter is called to Baltimore at the request of Dr Gibson. She has a patient there who knows nothing about himself or what happened to him. All he knows is a particular name that he keeps repeating...
> 
> The * means a different POV ^.^

Peter recognised his own voice from within his apartment as soon as he unlocked the front door. Although he had purposely distanced himself from any and all remnants of the crazy past few years, he still hadn't  _quite_ shaken the sensible paranoia he had crafted to protect himself out of necessity.

 

And so he froze outside in the hall, peeking through the crack in the door. Senses buzzing and hearing strained, he fully expected his own familiar-yet-unrecognisable, scarred face to come into view at any moment... A few seconds passed this way, but no hardened, warrior, future version of himself approached. Not even a shape-shifter wearing his appearance jumped out at him.

 

It was only after mentally running through all the ability-related possibilities that the most obvious answer hit him squarely in the forehead: it was only his answering machine.

 

Embarrassed now, Peter forced his way into the empty room. The door was stiff on it's hinges as ever, and he thought for the millionth time that he should get around to fixing it. But he just didn't have time for anything much outside of work these days, not with all the overlapping shifts he was pulling – like tonight's for example. He hadn't even set both feet inside his apartment yet, and the sun was already threatening to rise.

 

He dropped his keys and heavy medical bag on the ground, beyond caring about storing them neatly (another perk of the “minimalist” theme that his mother disapproved of so: no coat stand meant the floor was the only option). Curious as to who could possibly be calling him at this hour, Peter swiped his tired, limp hair back and leant against the wall to wait for the message to start. Hesam's shift had just ended so he wouldn't be on call for a while yet; Peter had just recently talked to his brother Nathan, and doubted to hear from him again so soon; and his mother would be wrapped up snugly in her Egyptian Cotton sheets and Deluxe Caviar face mask for another few hours yet... Which left the unfavourable possibility of an old acquaintance calling on him – no, his  _ability –_ t o solve a problem for them. 

 

Of course Peter still harboured his old dream to be a hero, to save the world and all that... but he was just so tired of the never-ending game. Of all the back-stabbing and manipulation that seemed to come hand in hand with these superhuman abilities. Was it worth it, really? To be involved with all of the horrific incidents and schemes that always seemed to lurk beneath the surface? At the current moment, Peter was sure the answer was a flat-out “no”. Noah Bennet and the others could stuff it for all he cared – Peter's ability (although, yes, a lessened version of the gift it used to be) was still powerful. And still dangerous. He wouldn't go around hiring it out to people with “morally-grey” agendas any longer. He would much rather do his part to save one life at a time at work than get too involved with the bad type of people he had only recently managed to disentangle himself from.

 

And he had also  _just_ got home from more than twenty hours on the job. All he wanted right now was to collapse on his bed and sleep for three days straight with no cares or obligations.

 

However, to Peter's surprise, it was an unfamiliar voice that sounded through his answering machine: a woman with a polite, English accent. “Hello. My name is Dr Gibson, I'm a psychologist with Baltimore police. ...I have a patient in custody asking for you. At least, I hope it's you, I don't have much information to go on...”

 

At this, Peter's curiosity outweighed his exhaustion, and he scooped up the receiver. “Hello?”

 

“Peter Petrelli?”

 

“Yeah. Hi... but, uh, I don't understand why you're calling me. I don't know anyone in Baltimore.”

 

“Oh.” Dr Gibson's voice fell. 

 

“Yeah. Sorry. I wish I could help you, but...”

 

“Are you sure?” Dr Gibson continued, grasping at straws by the sound of it. “I'm afraid that my patient is suffering from a case of traumatic amnesia, and is not very coherent. But he mentioned your name a couple of times and was really quite insistent... his name is Gabriel? Gabriel Gray?”

 

Every ounce of curiosity drained away from Peter then, along with the feeling in all his limbs. He would swear his heart stilled for more than a few beats, and her voice floated around in his head for a brief few seconds.

 

Images flitted across Peter's memory: dancing orange light, spitting flames, a ring of witnesses – no,  _perpetrators_ ... 

 

When he finally found his voice, it sounded weak and very far away. “Gabriel Gray is dead.”

 

He had seen it with his very own eyes, just one pair of the many watchful orbs of the guilty. They had all convened to watch, like cold shadows in the night, each one with their part to play in the fateful deed... Peter hadn't known what they were going to do. He hadn't known they would use him as an accomplice in murder. The thought still turned his stomach, no matter who the man had been. But at least it had all been over, and countless lives had been spared at the loss of just one. But now...?

 

There was a stung silence from Dr Gibson's end of the line, but the gap in conversation was nothing compared to the void in Peter's insides. “Well I have a very confused man here who can't remember anything about himself or where he's from. He didn't even know his name until we identified him... All he remembers is you, Mr Petrelli.”

 

She seemed to be waiting for Peter to input something, but he couldn't even swallow, let alone speak. What was that he'd just been thinking about disentangling himself from bad people...? Shit, he'd rather take Noah Bennet calling to recruit him for the goddamned Avengers over  _this_ phone call!

 

Dr Gibson finally seemed to realise that no reply was coming, and cleared her throat, securing her professional persona more firmly around her shoulders. “Would you be able to arrange an appointment to come and visit Gabriel? I really think a familiar face would help him recover more of who he is. Frankly, I'm worried about him, Mr Petrelli. He's been through an ordeal, and he's in quite an unstable condition –”

 

“Yeah.” Peter said instantly, before his mind had even had a chance to catch up. “Yeah I'll come see him.” Then Dr Gibson was listing appointment slots and suggesting the best times for a meeting tomorrow, but all Peter could think was that there was no way he could leave _that_ man alone over there in an “unstable condition” with innocent people around him. If it really _was_ him, that is. But uncertainty wasn't good enough – Peter had to be sure. “Not tomorrow. Tonight. Uh, this morning.” He added, glancing at the sunrise tainting the sky outside. 

 

“Well I'm very glad to hear it, Mr Petrelli, thank you! I'm sure Gabriel will appreciate it immensely.”

 

So much for a blissful sleep, Peter thought humourlessly. All trace of fatigue had evaporated, and the uncomfortable, oh-so-familiar weight of getting into something he shouldn't was starting to build in his chest.

 

“I'll be there as soon as I can. What's the address...?”

 

 

***

 

 

The room was empty, buzzing with the intensity of the silence. He just couldn't take it any longer. The once too loud clock now, as if in protest, ticked so faintly he couldn't be sure if he was only imagining it. The whole place was too bare, too clinical, stripped of any identifying or unique features. Exactly like an imitation of the man currently sitting slumped at the table.

 

_Gabriel_ ... _Gabriel_ ... it was all he had to go on: this name that the doctors had given him. He was supposed to latch onto it, allow it to unlock the secrets to his personality and make everything alright again. But he couldn't. It  _almost_ fit,  _almost_ felt right... like three edges of a puzzle piece slotted together perfectly. But the forth edge... a separate part of him rejected the name stubbornly, as if it were made for someone else and not him. This absolute sense of incompleteness, of indecisiveness, was maddening, as a war raged on inside the ravenous cavern that used to hold a soul but was now left neglected and gaping. 

 

... _Gabriel_ ... at least “almost” was better than nothing at all.

 

The click of the door opening drew his attention instantly, and he tensed in his seat. Then the familiar face of Dr Gibson relaxed him a little. She smiled at him as she entered the room, as if he was actually _important_ enough to deserve such a kind gesture...

 

“Hello Gabriel. How are you feeling?”

 

“Better.” He lied, knowing it was the answer she wanted.

 

“That's excellent.” She nodded, smiling widely: the perfect blend of understanding, comforting and professional. It was the smile she'd rehearsed to perfection during her internship. “I have more good news: I brought you a visitor...”

 

Dr Gibson stepped aside, allowing another figure to fill the doorway. Gabriel's knuckles whitened around the arm rests of his chair at the arrival of yet another stranger in this big new world. The new addition looked no older than thirty, drained and exhausted, but most of all: unfamiliar. The man's face was taut and pale, and he seemed just as nervous as Gabriel felt.

 

Finally he managed to force the words through his stammering lips. “Who're you?”

 

*

 

Peter cautiously stepped closer to the metal table where his enemy sat. It was impossible not to think of the last time they'd been this close, the last time he'd looked into those haunting eyes. He tried to hide the bewilderment from his expression for the benefit of Dr Gibson (and the cameras he assumed were focused on the exchange), but his eyes were wide and couldn't stop staring at the dirty, frightened face peering out from under dirty, stringy hair. Peter had spent the entire journey trying to convince himself this man couldn't really be back from the dead... but now there was no escaping the truth.

 

It was him. No doubt about it.

 

Finally the initial shock waned, and Peter frowned. He ensured to keep a safe distance between himself and the man at the table, just to be safe, but really he didn't think he needed it. The guy he'd known had always been a good actor, great at assuming roles and characters, but this was different. It felt _real_ .

 

“It's me. Peter?” He murmured. It was so bizarre, as if those three words could possibly encapsulate an appropriate greeting. But what else could he really say? He had to stay intentionally vague in front of the third party in the room.

 

*

 

Peter... Peter... Gabriel... Gabriel and Peter. Two names, yet neither truly meant anything to him. Gabriel blinked up questioningly at Dr Gibson, a reassuring presence at his side. When she placed a hand on his shoulder, Gabriel flinched slightly, but didn't shake her off.

 

“Don't you recognise Peter?” Dr Gibson asked kindly. “You were talking about him earlier, don't you remember? You said you needed to see him?” 

 

As much as Gabriel tried, he couldn't recall saying anything of the sort. But his already befuddled mind had been playing tricks on him since he had been born into existence a few measly hours ago, so he believed Dr Gibson. She wouldn't lie to him – she had promised to  _help_ him. Staring at the table surface, Gabriel repeatedly mouthed the word “Peter” to himself, as if tasting it, before his deep, dark eyes flicked back onto the man himself. Dr Gibson wasn't mistaken in sensing fear ripple through both men. The air couldn't have been heavier with everything that they  _weren't_ saying to each other.

 

Taking this as her cue to leave, she crossed to the door. “I'll be right outside, okay?” She sent another practised smile at Gabriel's lost look before excusing herself and joining a frowning Captain Lubbock behind a monitor in another room.

 

Peter and Gabriel both watched in silence as the only small sense of comfort abandoned them. The door shut metallically behind her, sealing one man in a room with an unstable, possibly dangerous foe. And that was the case from both perspectives. The tension was thick, the air spiralling and swirling with so much between them, so many questions...

 

*

 

Anxious, curious, but most of all, empathetic, Peter let his genuine concern show on his face now. “You really don't know me?” He asked, feeling just as exposed under that probing, searching gaze as ever. The other man shook his head, hair fanning over his face. It had grown considerably since Peter had last seen him, and could now be used to hide behind like a reluctant child. Only then did Peter notice that he, himself, was doing the exact same thing. So in an act of defiance he swept his fringe behind his ear and inched a few steps closer. “You don't remember who you  _are_ ? What you've  _done?_ What you – what we  _both –_ can  _do_ ...?” Mindful of the cameras, he leaned closer than ever and lowered his voice to barely above a whisper to add, “...Sylar?”

 

The only reaction was a small grunt and flinch, but Peter suspected more so at his sudden proximity than the name. He just couldn't understand it... if only there was a way for him to verify this man's identity, or to check if it was all a lie... Then for the first time since entering the room, Peter's shocked, crowded and overexerted brain cleared enough to function closer to it's normal capacity. Feeling foolish, he recalled that he currently held Matt Parkman's telepathy, and had forgotten all about it. It was an ability he was less confident with, it being one of the most powerful and deadly should the consequences go wrong, so Peter just gently extended the feelers of the power to caress the contents of Sylar's mind...

 

Nothing but the weeping, blistering agony of literally  _nothing_ greeted him, and Peter instantly recoiled the ability as if burned. What the hell was  _that_ ?! He'd never known anything like that, not ever. No memories, no hopes, no dreams or ambitions, not even _secrets_ resided in that empty chasm of a mind! He had, for a short while on the way over, entertained the idea that perhaps  René was responsible for Sylar's memory loss. But now he doubted that even the Haitian's power extended that far into the depths of a soul... at least it hadn't when he, himself, had been brain-wiped, abandoned and packed off in a container to Ireland. 

 

But what if  René had been going easy on him back then? This was  _Sylar_ after all! The man Peter's own family and friends had conspired to trap and murder! There was no telling what would be done to him, or by who, in a desperate attempt to finish him off for good. Which then poised the question of the cremation those weeks ago... Sylar had burned right before Peter's eyes, yet here he was: very much alive and breathing, despite the state of him. He had proven time and time again to be an immensely resilient man, but was it really possible to regenerate from nothing more than a pile of smouldering ashes...?

 

No. Trusting his instincts had more often than not gotten Peter into trouble and/or killed in the past, but this time he was absolutely  _sure_ of it: there was definitely some ability-related messing at play here. Perhaps a shape-shifter somehow stuck behind Sylar's face, or an illusionist, or the ever-possible time-travel conundrum – could this be a Sylar from the past who had got himself caught up in the consequences of his future self's actions? It was impossible to guess at the right answer. In this world,  _anything_ was possible after all.

 

Then a small sound drew Peter out of the deep well of his reverie. He had almost forgotten for a moment that he was actually standing so close to the problem at hand. Person!  _Person_ , he corrected himself sternly. Nobody should be refereed to as a “problem” (his own past experiences on the receiving end of the word had ingrained this mentality into him), especially not while they were so clearly in such a state of distress. The small noise sounded again, except this time, Peter interpreted it to be his name.

 

“Peter... _Peter..._ Pete?”

 

*

 

Slowly things were knitting together inside Gabriel's head. A few bits and pieces here and there were forming the outline of a picture he was sure he had once known. Staring openly at this stranger,  _Peter_ , made Gabriel feel like he might be getting somewhere with this...

 

“Yeah, that's right. I'm Peter.” The maybe-stranger said gently, now leaning on the table with both hands spread out on the surface. Long fingers, nice hands. Gabriel almost felt a ghost of their touch jovially patting his shoulder, his back, touching his arm, then suddenly gripping around his throat so tightly he was sure he felt his very _bones_ break – he shivered, looking up at the face instead. The hands were too complex, there were too many conflicting feelings there. 

 

...Yes. There was definitely something about Peter. Gabriel was pretty sure he half-recognised him: the wide, hazel eyes and small mouth mostly. The asymmetrical slant to that lower lip itched at some distant inkling want to  _fix_ it somehow, as if he'd thought so before...

 

Then amazingly, to both Peter and Gabriel, the amnesiac's mouth curved softly in a self-conscious, timid smile. Gabriel didn't even know why – all he knew was that it was so strange, so welcome, to feel the tickle that was a whisper of a memory. It was the most he'd managed since clawing himself out of the ground last night and, most importantly, it was a nice sensation.

 

*

 

Feeling safe to assume that Sylar wouldn't at least jump on him if he got too close, Peter dragged the other chair out from the table. The metal snagged and squeaked on the floor, the screech loud enough through the microphone to make the hidden surveyors all wince. Then Peter sat down, leaning forward, eyebrows peaked. “Syl... uh, Gabriel?” He whispered, blocking out the memory of an impossible future where he and Sylar were brothers, close friends, and Peter an uncle to  _Gabriel's_ child. “What happened to you? Can you tell me anything at all?”

 

Telling himself not to be so childish, Peter tried to think of this poor soul like any other he helped at work: a wounded person who just needed to be shown some kindness and comfort. He reached out a slightly trembling hand and tentatively brushed the pads of his fingertips along the long, dark hair on Sylar's arm. Hoping against hope that the consoling gesture just might pay off...

 

It did not. Instantly, the entire atmosphere in the room shattered, and everything was everywhere all at once. An anguished yell tore from Sylar's dry throat, and he fell backwards off his chair in a desperate attempt to distance himself from Peter. Whimpering and screaming, crawling backwards until he hit the far wall, his eyes were wild and never once strayed from Peter's. Frightened by the loud noise and the reaction, Peter too jumped to his feet, shocked dumb and only staring helplessly as Dr Gibson ran in and over to Sylar.

 

“What happened?” She demanded, kneeling on the floor beside the thrashing man with an arm around his shaking shoulders.

 

“Nothing! I dunno! I just touched him!” Agitated, Peter ran a hand over the rough stubble on his chin, then gripped a fistful of his overgrown hair as he watched Sylar try to retreat from him further. Guilt and pity began to settle itself only deeper in his gut, and he felt even more useless for not knowing the cause of the breakdown. Sylar or not, Peter's heart had always been vulnerable for people in need, and the look of utter terror and revulsion beneath those dark brows haunted Peter already. It would take a long time to forget that image.

 

Shivering, voice starting and stopping, Sylar continued to whine pitifully in Peter's direction. “You... you w-were  _dead_ ... He was  _dead_ ! And his blood... my hands...” He stared at his hands in terror, holding them as far away from himself as was possible, as if he could rid himself of them that way. 

 

“Shit...” Peter breathed out without meaning to as understanding dawned.

 

“The ground... I fell onto him... he was broken – twisted – dead! And, and then his _head_...” The murderer continued in a high-pitched stream of cries, shrinking back further into Dr Gibson's embrace. His face was flushed and tears streamed fast and hot down his cheeks. Peter's stomach knotted itself even further into a conflicted mess of emotions overcoming rational thinking.

 

Hopefully Sylar's sentences were distorted enough for Dr Gibson not to believe him, but every word hit home painfully for Peter. “His head was splitting open!” Sylar whined, and Peter's stomach jolted uncomfortably as the serial killer's forefinger imitated the deadly cut of telekinesis that he had come to fear spectacularly – and with good reason. “And then... then he was on the floor... the glass... the  _thud_ ... his eyes! And his eyes were clouded over... and he was so cold –  _so cold_ and heavy... Pete! In my arms... he's not supposed to die this way... he was  _dead_ ...!”

 

*

 

After having absolutely nothing until now, Gabriel was now suffocating under the weight of all these horrific images that painted themselves across his vision, tearing gashes in his being. They ate at him, revitalised him, made him want to throw up and cheer at the same time – and the whole thing was so overwhelming and horribly confusing and he had no idea what was happening and just wanted it all to stop! He had two people fighting in his head: opposite views of the same events. It was like looking through one eye and watching from the new, skewed perspective. It didn't make sense. It ripped him apart.

 

“H-he... Peter... Pete, I held him...! I watched him fall then... then I cried when I held him...”

 

*

 

Heart hammering painfully inside his chest, Peter tried to make sense of all this. He recognised the re-telling of his past encounters with Sylar, but some of it didn't fit. “ _I cried when I held him_ ”... He pushed away the thought, didn't even want to go there, but it was impossible to ignore now he'd caught a hint of it. Had Sylar regretted killing him back in Mohinder's apartment? Cradled his dead body and cried over what he'd done...? That definitely didn't sound like the man Peter knew.

 

Yet neither did the man before him now.

 

With great effort, Dr Gibson managed to settle Sylar back into his chair at the table, where he slumped over and rested his forehead to the cool metal. Peter watched the other man's shoulders heaving, heard his breath hitching, and allowed himself also to be numbly guided back into the opposite chair by Dr Gibson.

 

Whatever was going on here was sick – it was disgusting to put a person through this, and Peter was revolted at the very idea of someone doing this to him on purpose. Even to Sylar of all people. It wasn't fair! It wasn't right! And he vowed to help in any way he could. 'Save the world and all that' sure, but this was personal, a 'one person at a time' thing, and Peter couldn't remember ever meeting anyone in such desperate need of his care. He reached out softly again, nervous in case of another bout of memories stemming from his touch, and grasped Sylar's shoulder gently.

 

“Gabriel.” He murmured. The shoulder stopped moving as Sylar held his breath. Then lifted his pink and blotchy face. Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks, leaving behind trails in the dirt that was embedded into his skin. The guy had clearly been through a hell of an ordeal, and Peter's heart ached. He remembered exactly how lost and petrified _he'd_ been all alone with no memories or sense of self in the shipping container, and then again once being discovered. It was not an experience he'd wish on anyone, not even, coincidentally, his worst enemy. 

 

*

 

“Peter...?” Gabriel breathed, and found the name escaped his lips easily and without effort. Peter's hand was still touching him, a warm, welcome weight that instilled more peace and trust in this one contact that Dr Gibson had in him in all of hers combined. No more vivid flashes of past horrors came flying up to greet him this time, and Gabriel let himself relax under the touch.

 

“Listen, I'm gonna help you, okay? I'm gonna work out what happened to you. I'll look after you, alright? ...Do you understand?” Peter said carefully, deliberately, right into Gabriel's eyes, spawning another little sob as a pale, lifeless version of that same face danced just behind Gabriel's vision. But then Peter smiled, and his squint lip sent a bolt of emotions through the broken man – playing to both parts of his messed up being. A brief flicker of that same smile, same little lip on a child's face, innocent, adoring... then as an adult, with shorter hair and hopeful eyes, that mouth forming the words “ _I wasn't gonna leave you_ ”...

 

The most solid thing he knew in this whole wide world was that he could trust Peter. Pete would look after him.

 

*

 

So much work was going on inside that head, but Peter made absolutely sure not to leak an ounce of Matt's ability and intrude on such private matters. He'd never been particularly fond of this power or it's manipulative ways, but he yearned to read Sylar's thoughts in that moment. But he wouldn't. That was the exact issue he was trying to outrun day to day! He'd promised himself only to use his ability for good, and never to abuse it over people who had no chance of defending themselves. Reading someone's thoughts aided him at work, such as when a patient was in shock or unwilling to admit what had really happened to get them into such an accident, but Peter never strayed further than the necessary information that he needed. And he wouldn't do so now, either. It wouldn't be fair on Sylar, or himself.

 

“Thank you.” Sylar muttered, trying to smile again before giving up. For a moment nothing happened, then Sylar slowly reached across the table. Instinctively, Peter froze. Past experience had taught him only to expect pain or death when Sylar pointed at him. But no... instead of slicing through skin with a finger, he shyly took Peter's hand. The empath's first impulse was to shake him off and recoil, but the killer's skin was warm and the affection even warmer and so unexpected from _this_ human being! Peter couldn't bring himself to shatter such a fragile trust of a man who knew nothing else. 

 

So he allowed Sylar to hold his hand, aware of the absurdity of the situation and the faceless people watching through the camera. But they didn't matter, not when there was a man in such urgent need of help, and Peter was here and able to give it.

 

Satisfied with the turn of events and her patient's progress, Dr Gibson smiled between the two. There was definitely a relationship of sorts there, complicated to say the least. But she had been right after all, seeing Peter had helped Sylar remember something – even if it had only been delusions and fantasy.

 

“Thank you for coming down, Mr Petrelli. You've really made a difference.”

 

Peter acknowledged this briefly, throat tight and afraid to speak should his voice break. He had to be strong for Gabriel (for this man definitely wasn't the murderer he had come to know and hate, and didn't deserve to be identified under his alias, so “Gabriel” it would be). The man sitting before him hadn't committed those heinous crimes, that was like holding Peter responsible for his future self's actions: they were outside his control. Gabriel's circumstance, however, wasn't. Or at least wouldn't be if Peter could help it.

 

He cleared his throat, trying to sound calm. “So do I have to sign him outta here or something?”

 

Dr Gibson's smile froze, and Peter knew immediately they'd hit a speed bump. Her eyes flickered quickly to Gabriel and back, and she chose her words carefully as to not upset her charge. “Ah, no. No, actually. You see, there's a system... in, in cases like this...”

 

Peter sighed, rubbing his face. He'd forgotten that Gabriel had been arrested and charged of multiple murders. There was no way to just up and walk out of here without consequence... unless Peter broke his “ability abusing” rule...

 

Oblivious to the plan forming in Peter's mind, Dr Gibson continued trying to neatly salvage the situation. “– I just don't have the authority. Plus, you'd have to be family to –”

 

“He is family.”

 

The small voice was barely a murmur, but it was enough to cut Dr Gibson's ramble dead. She tipped her head at Gabriel, while Peter felt his stomach jolt. “What did you say Gabriel?” Dr Gibson prompted gently.

 

*

 

“He _is_ my family... my... brother?” Gabriel said, unsure this time. Upon seeing their expressions, his confidence had plummeted again. He'd been _so sure_ of it, somehow. The word “family” had struck a chord, and it had seemed like the most obvious thing in the world! Peter, Pete: family. A brother, his little brother... but by the looks on their faces he assumed he'd been wrong about that too.

 

*

 

When Gabriel's eyes landed on Peter, seeking reassurance, he smiled a little. Gabriel's hand was still over his own, but Peter had almost forgotten it was there. It felt nice. “No, we're not family.” He said kindly, then elaborated for every spectator's sake. “There was a time not too long ago when we  _thought_ we were brothers. You must be remembering that? There was, uh... a mix up. My parents mislead us... but they were lying. We're not related Sy- Gabriel. We've only known each other a few years.”

 

*

 

This answer placated Dr Gibson, but Gabriel was now only more confused than ever. If that was true, how could he feel echoes of playing with Peter as a child? How could he catch fuzzy glimpses of that face and body ageing through what must have been twenty or more years? But he said nothing. Just nodded to the tabletop, hiding himself behind his hair again.

 

It was fascinating to watch them, Dr Gibson thought to herself. She'd always enjoyed people-watching, which had suited her profession immensely. And here were two fascinating specimen tangled in so much mystery and intrigue: one man guarded and shy, the other open and caring, joined only by overlapping hands and a huge mess of baggage that only one person in the room knew the truth of.

 

*

 

“We might not be family, but that doesn't mean I won't try to help you. I'm gonna get you outta here.” Peter said, reaching across and squeezing Gabriel's hand with both of his now. The guy jumped at the sudden intensified contact, face crest-fallen and hopeful all at once. Gabriel was depending on Peter to solve this puzzle, and although the task was daunting, he was already gearing himself up for a fight. He'd gotten into too many of those recently (most of which had been with the very man who's hand he was presently holding) but this would be different. This was a fight worth having: a fight for justice.

 

*

 

“Th-thank you.” Gabriel breathed, astounded at the conviction and certainty in Peter's vibrant gaze. So he _had_ been right about one thing at least: Pete would look after him. “Thank you.” He repeated, allowing the first unbridled smile to grace his mud and tear-stained face.

 

*

 

Peter returned it automatically, mind whirring with all the possible ways Gabriel could have gotten into this mess. Maybe Sylar's body  _had_ eventually regenerated from the burning, and only fractions of his memories had survived with him? Did that mean that maybe this timid, delicate version of the mass murderer could be a fresh start for him? For Gabriel? Peter hoped so, but was not as naïve and optimistic as he once was. The likelihood of that was slim, and first he had to track down the source of the foul play involved and confront the monster who had ripped a person's soul from their body.

 

“I promise you, Gabriel. I will help you. We'll work this out together.” Peter vowed, squeezing Gabriel's fingers again. The rewarded look of adoration and trust sent his way cemented Peter's decision fully. He didn't care right then how many people Sylar had killed, or that he deserved a proper punishment for everything he had done. Right then, Peter only cared about helping another person who needed him.

 

He hated breaking his promise to himself, and all he could do was hope that mind controlling their way out wouldn't cost anyone here their jobs. But it was a necessary risk to take – no one here could help Peter save Gabriel.

 

He knew exactly where to start his search for answers, and it certainly wasn't in Baltimore. It was the place where every incriminating secret was kept neatly tucked away and hidden until some later use for it arose...

 

Angela Petrelli.

 

 


	2. Who We Used to Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now safely back in New York, Gabriel has some burning questions he wants to ask Peter. Meanwhile Peter struggles with approaching the sensitive topics... tactfully.

Peter almost fell right onto his own doorstep.  _Shit_ , he cringed, catching his balance and pushing the damned door open the rest of the way. Perhaps he'd been a little too enthusiastic in his attempt  _not_ to embarrass himself by being unable to open the stiff front door... But his guest didn't laugh at him, roll his eyes or even send a condescending smirk his way. That was yet another factor in an increasing pile of them that reminded Peter that this man definitely wasn't the sarcastic, gloating killer that used to reside inside that mind.

 

“Well... home sweet home!” He gestured stupidly with his arms as Gabriel crossed the threshold, (luckily too absorbed in taking in his new surroundings to pay too much attention to his host's awkward motions). Peter closed the door behind his guest, dropped the bag of Gabriel's belongings that the police had made up for him, and gripped his hands tightly behind his back to refrain from making an even bigger fool of himself.

 

He wasn't sure what had come over him, but since leaving the Baltimore precinct he had suddenly felt very inadequate, clumsy and  _extremely_ unprepared to take on the task that lay before him. Gabriel had barely said a word since leaving the holding room, and so Peter had over-talked to compensate. He couldn't bear the silence. He had needed something, anything, to fill the heavy void between them that was beginning to buckle under the strain of so many withheld secrets.

 

*

 

Gabriel looked about himself meticulously, taking his time to notice everything. The apartment was reasonably sized, stripped bare but for the minimal essentials a person needed to live on. Open plan, save for patio doors to another empty room with nothing but a double bed inside. These few rooms were hardly lived in, it seemed, and all the signs glaringly pointed out that only  _one_ occupant was welcome here. 

 

Having no experience of other apartments to compare it to, Gabriel couldn't really form a solid opinion of the place. It should have been hostile, unappealing in it's blandness, like the room back at the station, but instead Gabriel found it to be somehow accepting of him. He'd have liked to think it was recognition that caused this reaction, but it wasn't. This place was just as unfamiliar to him as the bustling streets of the city had been on their way here. But still... there was something he just somehow  _liked_ about this place.

 

“It's not much, but there's worse out there.” 

 

Gabriel looked back at Peter to see him loosely shrug his shoulders, hands behind his back and his large eyes watching carefully. He looked nervous, Gabriel realised suddenly – nervous of _his_ opinion? Really? Like it actually  _mattered_ ...? A trickle of warmth heated his insides, and he suddenly realised why he felt so content here: because the place belonged to Peter.

 

“I wouldn't know.” He mumbled quietly, keeping his epiphany to himself and stretching his sore neck a little. As much as he'd been desperate to escape the clinical prison, he hadn't properly contemplated that outside those four walls was a big, bad world just waiting to consume and overwhelm him. The constant ruckus of new sounds, smells and sights had wound Gabriel into a tight ball of nerves, and his muscles and tendons were stiff from being tense for so long. At last, he felt himself relaxing. It was safe in here, more quiet than anywhere else he'd passed in the city but thankfully not as suffocating as the police holding room had been. There was nobody here asking things of him or shouting at him to “watch where you're going!”. Nobody expected him to know his way about this foreign world. In here it was just him and Peter. 

 

And that was okay.

 

*

 

Gabriel was standing in the centre of the bare room, continuing to scout the place out slowly and at his own pace. Peter tried to tell himself it was stupid to care what the guy thought of his apartment, but he couldn't shake the nerves. He wasn't used to having visitors, let alone ones who's first safe haven should have been warm and welcoming. Or at the very least – decorated. The state of his living space hadn't entered his mind at all when he had decided to take an amnesiac man back to his home – all he had known was that they both needed rest, and Peter had no clue where in the city Sylar's apartment was. Obviously, neither did Gabriel.

 

It had seemed the reasonable thing to do to take him here, yet now that he looked upon the lean figure actually standing in his living room (had he always been _that_ tall?), regret and doubt began to seep in. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, especially when his deep, soulful eyes were turned away. He looked just the same as ever from the outside. Calm, composed and calculating. It creeped Peter out.

 

Pushing those thoughts away, he paced a few steps closer to this stranger in a familiar body. “I'll try to find your address tomorrow, alright?” He said brightly, hiding his uncertainty well. “ _Someone_ must know where you live, Sylar.” 

 

Gabriel's head whipped around to face him with such speed and precision that Peter actually flinched, absolutely expecting a hand to follow the movement and his whole body to be crushed by the sudden weight of telekinesis. But Gabriel just blinked at him, hands harmlessly by his sides. “'Sylar'...? You called me that before. ...Is that my name?”

 

Fuck. Peter hadn't even noticed the slip up. It was probably best not to touch on  _that_ subject for now. “Uh... yeah. It was. More like a... nickname.” He crafted quickly, which seemed to appease Gabriel's questioning gaze. “Your real name is Gabriel, though.” He was at least ninety percent sure of that. That lost future version of Sylar had gone by Gabriel, and until then Peter hadn't ever noticed that “Sylar” wasn't exactly the type of name you Christened a baby with. Besides, Dr Gibson and the police had identified his fingerprints to that name, so it must be true.

 

*

 

Gabriel pondered, lost in thought.  _Sylar..._ Like 'Gabriel', the name still didn't sit right. There was a tingle about it, but it felt wrong, nasty. Almost forbidden. Nicknames were supposed to be friendly, he reasoned... but his didn't feel so. He preferred 'Gabriel'.

 

*

 

The gap in conversation expanded until Peter couldn't take the silence any longer, and he crossed to the cupboard, disappearing into it. “I know it's still early, but I'm gonna turn in. I'm guessing you'll be needing some sleep too, huh? You can take my bed, I'll sleep on the couch.” He said, thankful to find some clean (albeit crushed) long-lost bedding at the bottom of the cupboard.

 

By now it was mid afternoon. The travelling to and from Baltimore had eaten up hours of the day and the “escape” had taken a little bit too long to manipulate. Peter had fumbled for ages with Matt's telepathy, afraid to go too far and cause some irreparable damage to anyone's minds, and so they had been caught red-handed in the act. It had been extremely awkward having half the staff happy to wave them out the door no questions asked, and the other half running after them with lots of confused and angry shouting. It was, at best, a clumsy rescue mission that had taken a lot of improvising to pull off. Eventually they had managed to hurry away unscathed, but Peter had embarrassed himself sufficiently along the way.

 

Now he was so beyond tired that he practically felt dead on his feet. He hadn't slept in days, and the waking hours hadn't exactly been peaceful. But as much as he wanted to, he couldn't just pass out where he stood – he had to think of Gabriel.

 

*

 

The man in question had spent the entire drive back to the city silently marvelling at anything and everything for the first time. It all felt so new, but occasionally he had gotten flashes of images and picked up small crumbs of information that made sense. He had tried to trick himself into remembering more of the infuriatingly brief glimpses into conflicting lives, but he couldn't force them upon himself. He didn't know how or why the memory leaks occurred when they did, but they had. He, too, was exhausted and drained from his very first day in the world, and so Peter's offer sounded heavenly. Except for one thing.

 

“ _I'll_ take the couch.”

 

“No really, it's no problem -”

 

“Please. I'd rather be in here.” He smiled timidly at Peter's curious expression. “You've already done so much for me, the least I can do is let you sleep in your own bed.”

 

*

 

It was such a small act of kindness, but still it knocked all the air out of Peter's body. He couldn't even remember the last time anyone had done anything for his benefit – let alone Sylar of all people! It startled him by how much it meant, and he wasn't exactly sure how to process that at the moment.

 

So he started making up the couch for an excuse to hide his blushing cheeks, feeling his doubts begin to trickle away. “'Kay. Right. Thanks. 'Kay.”

 

*

 

Gabriel waited patiently while Peter set out a pile of spare clothes for him and finished setting up the makeshift bed. The man worked thoroughly; carefully tucking in the sheet and folding down the top to make it look more comfortable. Gabriel didn't know if that's how all beds were made or not, but the effort still made him feel special. Pete... special Peter. Gabriel hadn't expected such good service while intruding upon another man's home, but he followed silently, happily, lapping it all up as Peter gave him a quick tour of the apartment. There wasn't much to see: the fridge, the coffee machine, the microwave (which Gabriel intended to ignore as long as possible unless Peter was there to talk him through the complicated process), the toilet, sink and shower.

 

*

 

“I think there's a... yeah. Here's a toothbrush you can use.” Peter lifted the unopened packet, grateful to have at least scavenged the bare minimum of guest accessories in such a hurry. “The shower's pretty simple. You have to let the water run for a while, and it goes hot and cold a lot, but I dunno how to fix that... So: just twist that lever there, okay?” He gave Gabriel a brief example, watching the man absorbing every instruction wholly. That was a relief – he'd dreaded the thought of having to physically help him shower (he had done so for some of his hospice patients at times, but _Sylar_ , or at least his very muddy, very naked, body was another story). Gabriel's high intelligence seemed to be working at it's normal rate, churning away now that it had something to tackle.

 

With the unspectacular tour now complete, there was nothing else Peter could do for the man. At least until tomorrow, which was a different matter altogether. “So... sleep well then.” He said, desperate for his bed yet also unwilling to leave his companion alone so soon. Gabriel looked like he was struggling with something, ready to talk a few times before swallowing it back down, so Peter waited. And waited. He waited until he thought Gabriel had chickened out, and decided it might be kinder not to pressure him if he wasn't ready to talk some more tonight. So he backed off a little before finally crossing the apartment to the patio doors leading into his bedroom.

 

*

 

As soon as Peter turned his back, Gabriel began to panic, forcing his voice out at last. “Thank you! Again. For... rescuing me.” He blurted. It wasn't what he really wanted to say.

 

“You're welcome.” Peter answered with a genuinely truthful smile that instilled confidence. 

 

Just as the guy turned away again - “You were... controlling those people at the police station weren't you?” There. He'd said it. Gabriel's voice was small and pathetic sounding, which was just how he felt in that moment.

 

*

 

Peter stopped walking. He sighed. Rubbing his forehead he turned back to an open, vulnerable expression that made him feel awful for lying. Well... not really  _lying_ , but purposely not mentioning the extraordinary things they could do. He knew that Gabriel must have so many burning questions about how they had gotten out of the police station and perhaps even about his own abilities (could he feel them? Was he even aware of them yet?), but although he had blabbed non-stop about pointless things during the journey home, Peter had deliberately avoided anything to do with abilities. 

 

He just didn't know where to start, and didn't want to overwhelm an already fragile person with something as significant as that.  _Oh hey, did I forget to say that you have superpowers? I do too! Isn't that neat...? And oh yeah, you've murdered probably hundreds of innocent people with your bare hands, making yourself a_ lot  _of enemies who recently grouped together to plan and execute your murder..._ It wasn't exactly a light conversation.

 

Gabriel was still watching him as he stalled for time and failed to come up with an easy way out of this. “Yeah. I was.” He admitted in defeat, unsure how else to tackle this and unwilling to do so in the full way it deserved while running on empty, energy-wise.

 

*

 

“How?” Somehow Gabriel wasn't afraid, although he probably should have been. But whatever this unusually talented man had done to alter those people's minds, he had done it to set Gabriel free. It hadn't seemed dangerous, just... intriguing. He couldn't fault his solid, intuitive trust in Pete, or the patient man's generosity towards him.

 

“It's... complicated. A really long story.” Peter meshed his fingers together loosely, playing with them instead of looking at Gabriel. “We'll sit down and I'll tell you everything tomorrow, alright?” It felt mean to make his hero uncomfortable – Peter Petrelli was the only thing Gabriel knew in the entire world so far, and he quite liked it that way.

 

*

 

It wasn't going to be fun, but Peter knew he had to face this. Gabriel deserved to know the truth. What happened if his abilities awoke and he had no idea what they were or how to handle them? He had to tell him, to help him understand. He'd just have to handle the “serial killer” bit...  _tactfully_ . If there was even a way to do such a thing. However it came about, telling Gabriel everything about his powers and their inevitable consequences was the right thing to do. And maybe he could supply a safety talk that Sylar might have missed out on the first time around? Maybe it could really be different this time...?

 

“All you have to know right now is that I didn't hurt anybody.” Peter said calmly, pleased that at least that was completely true. The escape had been messy, but at least it had been almost-honest. Someone else in that situation probably would have cut corners to get their way faster, and Peter was proud that he hadn't. It had been bad enough to cave in and use the ability on dozens of people in the first place – he couldn't have lived with himself if he'd caused any lasting damage. “I promise we'll talk about it tomorrow.”

 

*

 

Gabriel nodded and sat carefully on the couch, sad to disrupt the tidy display of his bed covers. “Alright.” He agreed reluctantly.

 

He craved the forthcoming conversation already. Not the information particularly, but just sitting with Peter for a reasonable while, as he assumed it would be by “a long story”. He wished he could have that now. He didn't want to be alone. It didn't matter that this other person would be just a few metres away, or that he would be able to see the foot of the bed through the glass doors – Gabriel wanted to be _close_ to Peter. To be able to see his face at all times. Just being near the caring man made things just feel better, and he was terrified of losing that or the tiny fragments of a personality he had formed since breaking through six feet of earth for his first lungful of air last night.

 

So when Peter turned away again (his third attempt), Gabriel let out another pitiful croak. “Can you tell me about us then? How we know each other?”

 

*

 

Peter could have cried right then from exhaustion alone. He rubbed his dry, aching eyes and scratched a hand over his stubbled chin, wishing he was one of those people who could get away with saying “no” and never face any consequences for it. But then his gaze fell onto Gabriel, and he looked so needy and small, and the empath's insides melted. He could hardly blame the guy for wanting to latch onto the only person he had in his world, could he? And what harm would it do? He needed to tell him sometime, and at least it was better than the alternative conversation. He just had to re-tell everything he knew about Sylar (not that much) without including the abilities part (which narrowed it down a lot more). It couldn't be that hard, right?

 

“Sure. I'll tell you about us.” He crossed the room and sank into the couch beside Gabriel. Then became suddenly _very_ aware that he was sitting casually side-by-side with his couple-times-murderer in his living room as if it was no big deal. But there was nothing he could really do about that now. There couldn't have been more than four inches of empty space between the pair's thighs, and their faces were so close that Peter could probably have counted Gabriel's long, dark eyelashes swooping out from his deep-set eyes if he'd wanted to. It wasn't the first time they'd been this close. In fact, these two men had invaded each other's personal space more times than they had any business to, and each time had been quickly followed by some violence or pain of sorts. 

 

Even the last time Peter had seen Sylar before that morning, they had practically brushed noses while they glared into each other's eyes and gripped hands so tightly Peter's fingers had started to go numb. That closeness had been borne under very different circumstances from this one, yet the memory of that night, Peter's actions, and his involvement in the plot afterwards shot through him harshly now. The image of Sylar's smug grin faltering, then morphing into an expression of pure panic and confusion haunted Peter to this minute. He knew his regrets were misplaced, and Sylar didn't deserve any sympathy, but Gabriel was now watching him with the exact same look of hopelessness as Sylar had in the back of that car...

 

Peter shivered, but quite impressively managed to talk past the lump in his throat. “What d'you want to know?” He could almost see the thought process running across Gabriel's face as he choiced over which question to voice first. Finally he settled on one, presenting it as if it was just a small piece of information to start things off lightly.

 

“Who are we to each other?”

 

Peter cringed at that. Of course the very first question was one he had no clue how to answer! Even if it had been a right-minded Sylar with his personality intact that had asked this of him, their relationship was so screwed up that Peter couldn't possibly define it. To himself or otherwise. “It's... complicated.” He sighed. Honesty really is the best policy, Peter believed that whole-heartedly. And so he would be honest. Just... restricted in his information outflow. “We've been a lotta things to each other over the years. We've fought a few times...”

 

There were too many vivid, painful memories to choose from. Awful scenes of himself and the man beside him hurting each other with fists, parking meters, shards of glass, a handful of electricity now and then... The hands that were currently settled innocently in Gabriel's lap had factored in more than one of Peter's deaths. And likewise, Peter still felt sick remembering Sylar's neck snapping in his grip as he killed him in cold blood. Although he hadn't been in his right mind at the time, that still didn't excuse him from doing it.

 

“But we've helped each other out too. Been... friends before.” Okay, maybe that was exaggerating a little, but they _had_ been brothers for a brief time. Even if only in mind. During the short period they'd thought they were related, Sylar had saved Peter's life twice. Helped him stop his father and save his mother. The “heartless monster” who had presented himself to the world that way until then had suddenly revealed himself to be gentle and kind. He _was_ capable of such things. Sylar had accepted himself whole-heartedly as a long-lost Petrelli, and adopted Peter as family so easily... Maybe what he had needed all along was a family, a friend? Someone in his court who he could depend on and trust? Peter himself couldn't imagine going without that moral support (even though his family was pretty fucked up to say the least, at least he had _somebody_. Meanwhile Sylar, it seemed, had no one at all).

 

“Friends?” Gabriel repeated hopefully, his eyes round and watchful. He looked pleased with that idea, and Peter was reminded of when he'd visited the nice, future version of Sylar: the man with the unmistakeable warmth of happiness in his eyes and a young son who he loved more than anything. It had been enlightening to think that even the worst of people could get better. At the time Peter couldn't get his head around that majestic transformation from the cruel, merciless psycho he had known in present day. But now Peter saw a connection to him. Maybe _this_ is what happened? Maybe this mind-wipe tragedy would set Gabriel on his path to becoming, well... _Gabriel_. The idea held promise, and Peter found himself wishing more than he had for anything in a long time that it could be true. Please let it be true... 

 

“We've had our ups and down, to say the least.” He chuckled lightly, accidentally breathing in the mixed aromas coming off Gabriel, so close. He smelled earth, the clinical muskiness that accompanied spending hours cooped up in a holding room, and underneath it all, the man's own natural scent. 

 

Out of all of the abnormal, unbelievable, super powered situations they'd gotten themselves into together... sitting here with their shoulders almost brushing, doing nothing more than  _talking,_ might just have been the strangest experience they'd ever shared. Which was awful, now that Peter actually thought about it. When had he lost touch with such normal, human interactions? When had Sylar? If only the murderer had kept working at redeeming himself after the events back at Pinehearst... things could have been so different...

 

*

 

“But the last time we saw each other... it didn't end well.”

 

The happy bubble filled with imaginings of a closeness with Peter popped harshly in Gabriel's mind. He tried not to feel disappointed. He shouldn't have got carried away so soon, but just the thought of having a strong, if rocky, relationship with someone (and a relationship that seemed to fit with most of his conflicting senses and memories of Peter) had seduced him into fantasy. But now it seemed he had been foolish to believe it.

 

He mulled this over aloud. “Did it have anything to do with me losing my memories?” Then, after a long silence he felt brave enough to add, “My... soul?”

 

*

 

Peter hurt just at the possibility. He sincerely hoped not, as that would mean that poor Gabriel's condition was  _his_ fault –  _he_ had been the one to unwittingly allow the others to kill Sylar's vulnerable, defenceless body after all. “I dunno.” He said softly, not wanting to lie more than necessary. “I hope not.” He added with a little smile, both for his own and Gabriel's benefit.

 

*

 

It wasn't difficult to discern that Peter was fighting with this conversation. And also that he was withholding vital information. Gabriel supposed the rest would follow during tomorrow's “talk”, so to save Peter more hassle, he changed the subject to an easier one. “How did we meet?” But, regarding Peter's pained expression, it seemed this wasn't an easier question after all. 

 

“Well...” Gabriel was expecting more vague answers, or a swift diversion in the conversation. But then Peter puffed out a hopeless little laugh and adjusted himself on the couch, getting more comfortable. Gabriel sat up straighter, listening intently. “Okay. Here goes. Just bear with me, alright...?”

 

_*_

 

The city buzzed around them, oblivious and uncaring as ever about the two men sitting close together on a beaten couch in an empty apartment. Taxi cabs droned on and past, loud voices banged off the windows and noisy neighbours off the walls and ceiling. Afternoon turned into evening while Peter told Gabriel as much as he could, as much as he thought the other man could handle for now.

 

He told the story of two men drawn to an important event for different reasons, but driven by a similar goal. He said it gently, leaving out the death of an innocent girl, skipping loosely over his own first demise and implying more that Gabriel had just happened to witness both crimes rather than cause them. He softened the edges of the tale, but managed to get the basics across enough that the man knew the tale. Just not the full version.

 

*

 

“So... you _died_? That's what I saw back with Dr Gibson? It actually happened?” Gabriel frowned. He had drank in Peter's words greedily the whole time, although he was now left to churn through more questions than answers. At least the context for a few of the memory lapses had now been supplied, so at least there was that much to keep him going for now. Some facts had clicked into place in Gabriel's untarnished head, filling in the blanks and connecting the dots on a few precious subjects. But it was only words matching pictures he hadn't created himself: he didn't know where they came from, but he could admire from afar. It felt like taking it all in for the first time, being merely the messenger who collected and tucked the information away neatly in it's awaited, designated drawer inside someone else's storage facility.

 

“Well... yeah it happened. But I'm fine now, look – I'm alive and well.” Peter opened his arms wide, head cocked to the side slightly. Gabriel watched as a dark lock of hair swung across his face; an asymmetrical cut, soft and sloping and longer at one side. It was the same style he'd had for most of his adult life, and it suited him greatly. Gabriel didn't question how he knew that, but for now was content just to hold onto the simple fact of knowing anything at all.

 

“How is that possible...? You _died_.” He mused, hauling himself back to the conversation.

 

Peter sighed, repeating the same mantra that he must have worded a dozen times or more by now. “I'll tell you tomorrow.” His gaze was apologetic. “Just don't worry about it for now. It'll make sense, it's really not the weirdest thing out there.”

 

Apparently. It definitely sounded like the world was even more complicated than Gabriel had first anticipated. It sounded mean, unfair, and a worry had been niggling at him ever since Peter had so delicately skirted around the tender topic of their shared history.

 

“Peter?” He asked quietly, averting his eyes from the other man's intense, sleepy, dark-rimmed ones for a moment. He needed to ask this or it would eat away at him until he knew, but that didn't make asking any less scary. “...Am I a good person? I mean, _was_ I...?” 

 

*

 

Great. Just great.

 

Peter took a long while to voice his reply, choosing his words carefully. “I think... there's no such thing as “good people” and “bad people”.” He said truthfully, thinking about “evil” Sylar saving his life those times, and of his own many mistakes. Even Nathan was a solid point for his case: after everything he'd done there was no labelling him under only one title. The politician was used to  _'morally-grey'_ standards, as Noah Bennet liked to say. ' _Too cowardly to admit their bad actions_ ', as Peter preferred to put it.

 

But he quickly tucked those thoughts away. All the events of the past weeks were behind the Petrelli brothers now, and Peter was ready to love and accept Nathan fully again, the way he always had. Somehow it physically  _hurt_ him to be angry at Nathan. The betrayal of his brother always stung on so many levels, and he had betrayed Peter too many times to count. Yet, as always, all the youngest needed was a smile, a hug and a meaningful (if empty) promise, and he was more than happy to put all of his faith in Nathan again. 

 

Peter's love for his elder brother had been called his “weakness” before, amongst other things, but he disagreed. It was a strength to be able to love so much: some people, like Sylar, didn't know how to love at all. People weren't made to go through life without love, he thought, being reminded of Noah's warning a few weeks before about ending up alone. Sadly, it was a possibility, as much as Peter didn't want it to be. True, he did love (too much sometimes), but that didn't mean that people returned the feeling.

 

“I think that some people are closer to being “good” than others are.” He continued, gaze straying from Gabriel's. Shivers rolled down his spine at the depths of those eyes. They were open and wondrous now, but Peter had seen such darkness in them before. “But we all have a choice to control our actions and do what we think is right or wrong. And we have to deal with the repercussions of those choices.” _Unless you get your mind wiped and have no idea you made them in the first place_ , Peter didn't say. “I try to be a good person. I think you could be too if you wanted to be. It's your own decision, Gabriel. Nothing is stopping you from being who you want to be.” 

 

*

 

Gabriel was hooked on every word, inspired by this. Peter just made it sound so  _easy_ ! So  _inevitable_ ! Good ol' Pete with his bleeding heart and blind naivete... There was another, quick zip across Gabriel's vision: Peter, just a few years younger than now, positively shining with optimism and insisting on nothing more than just faith and  _dreams_ that it was _true,_ and it was  _amazing_ ...! ' _I'm telling you... I think I can fly...!'_ It was yet another sequence that didn't seem to belong to him, but Gabriel clung to it all the same. The man before him had changed so much in a short while, it seemed. He wondered what had happened to strip him of that blinding hope and innocence, as he certainly wasn't brimming with the stuff now. Kind, considerate and patient, yes, but the Peter in his memory was free of the calloused wounds to his soul that the Peter beside him almost hid so well.

 

“You _are_ a good person.” Gabriel stated. It was the only thing he had been so certain of in his limited time upon this earth.

 

Peter shifted at the compliment, shy under such brazen praise. “Thanks but, you don't know me yet.” He countered.

 

_Yet..._ The word hadn't escaped Gabriel's notice. Did that mean he was to be allowed the privilege of getting to know Peter properly...? “You rescued me from that room, you took me back to your home... you've helped me so much already.” Rambling now, he hurried before losing the nerve. “I don't have much experience with people, and I don't know that much about the world, but someone who goes out of their way to help someone else and make them feel safe sounds like a good person to me.” 

 

Peter's cheeks reddened slightly, and he nodded at his knees, hiding his face behind a curtain of hair. But Gabriel spied the working corner of his mouth lifting in a self-conscious smile that he thought was hidden.

 

It wasn't difficult to read between the lines: apparently Gabriel had not been the best person in his past life. Yet still Peter had taken on the responsibility of looking after him, even after whatever had transpired between them in the past. “You said I can be whoever I want to be?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Then I want to be a good person.” Like you, he thought sneakily. Peter's example only made Gabriel strive more to prove himself now. If this was to be his life from now on, he was going to do things properly.

 

*

 

It was so bizarre to hear those words be uttered from  _those_ lips. And even stranger because Peter had no doubt that the guy was serious. He suspected that desire had been inside Sylar all along, he had just strayed unfathomably far from the path. He hadn't had anyone to guide him the first time. And now Peter wanted that support – that friend – to be _him_ . “I promised you at the station that I'll help you. And I mean that. You want to be good, to do good things? Then I'll be here to help you do that.” 

 

The men smiled at each other, Gabriel thrilled at the promise of this adventure, and Peter nervous and once again overcome with the weight of all this draped heavily over him. What if Gabriel cracked or somehow remembered himself and went back to his old ways? That responsibility would be added to the heap already layered on Peter's shoulders. But what if he didn't, and today was the beginning of his true redemption, a do-over, a new shot at life...? Then that, too, would be down to Peter. Either way, nothing could continue until he took the first step forward.

 

 

*

 

It was only after Peter yawned so hard that Gabriel actually heard his jaw click that he reasoned he had to let him leave. Still reluctant, still wary of isolation, he wrapped the man's promise and his kind smile tightly around himself for comfort. “Thank you for telling me these things.” He said quietly. Peter only waved a hand in reply, caught up in the midst of yet another jaw-popping yawn that Gabriel had to fight not to copy himself. It had been a long day for them both, yet Gabriel secretly doubted his ability to sleep after absorbing so much in such a short while.

 

Peter seemed to notice that the conversation was winding down, and gratefully climbed stiffly to his feet. The couch felt bare and large without him. “First thing in the morning I'm gonna get started on fixing your, uh... problem.” He paraphrased politely.

 

“How?”

 

*

 

Peter's face screwed up at the thought. “I'm gonna visit my mother. See how much she'll tell me. I'm guessing not a lot, but it's still a place to start, right?”

 

There were still some unresolved issues going on between him and Angela. Ever since the whole fiasco with the Company, Coyote Sands and Sylar's “cremation”, Peter hadn't been able to look at her the same way as he'd used to. He dreaded visiting her for only social visits nowadays, so turning up with so many questions and an accusing finger pointed in her direction was  _not_ going to be fun...

 

*

 

“Your mother?” Gabriel echoed, clambering under the bedding on the couch, still fully-dressed and grimy with mud. Peter gave him a funny look, either at his choice of sleepwear or at the question, he couldn't be sure. So, suddenly embarrassed and worried that he'd done it all wrong, Gabriel chose to focus on the question while subtly kicking his shoes off and trying to look natural. “Why would your mother know what happened to me?”

 

“Trust me, if you remembered her you wouldn't have to ask!” 

 

As Peter laughed and stretched his knees a little, Gabriel's mouth formed the word “Ma?” before he had even had time to think it.

 

*

 

The word shocked both men as much as the other, and Peter felt his humourless chuckles die in his throat. He assumed it was another memory leak, as had happened back in the precinct, yet it wasn't that which had irked him. How fucked up had Sylar actually  _been_ by Angela and Arthur's joint scamming back at Pinehearst? For him to have adopted the Petrelli brother term for their mother must have meant he had been in deeper than Peter had ever realised. He was surprised by this, sad for Sylar getting manipulated in such a cruel way, but most importantly... a little jealous. _'Ma'_ was the way only he and Nathan referred to Angela, and it just felt wrong to hear it said by the man who had tried to wipe out Peter's family repeatedly. Not that Gabriel knew that, of course.

 

Then suddenly Peter was practically suffocated with the ache of missing Nathan, and he almost slumped in relief. Why hadn't he thought of this before?! He didn't have to deal with Gabriel and this predicament alone! His big brother would know what to do!

 

*

 

“Sorry.” Gabriel whispered, mortified by his own slip-up and the sudden change in Peter's demeanour. He had upset the man somehow, although he had no idea why that word had affected him so much. “S-sorry. I didn't mean... I don't know what that was...”

 

But Peter just shook his head, features softening. “Don't worry about it. You're confused - you have a right to be. It's not your fault what you can and can't remember. I'll see you in the morning, alright?”

 

Gabriel sank further into the cushions beneath him. His legs were far too long for the couch, sticking a good few inches over the armrest. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, watching with sad, unblinking eyes as his rescuer eventually managed to walk more than seven steps away. “If, if you need anything... I'm just in here.” Peter added, rocking on the door frame and looking embarrassed just saying it. But Gabriel appreciated it immensely.

 

*

 

“Okay. G'night Pete.”

 

All of a sudden it was very difficult to swallow again. Curled up under the blanket, so small and scared looking, Gabriel looked the very picture of innocence. Yet goosebumps were crawling down Peter's spine.

 

He just stood and stared, insides churning and hating the uncomfortable feeling that had started to creep over him... like something just wasn't right.  _'G'night Pete'_ was what Nathan had used to say every night when they were kids and both still lived at home. On the occasional night more recently when one brother stayed at the other's apartment after a conference or a party, the elder would tease that old joke from the couch, or over to the camp bed where the youngest had set up residence. It didn't really mean that much, Peter never usually thought about it... but Gabriel had just said those words  _exactly_ the same way Nathan did.

 

It was a small thing, really, in the grand scheme of things (and the strange goings-on today), but still made Peter uneasy. He felt suddenly exposed, and as if he'd just landed himself in the shit. He doubted Gabriel had even noticed what he'd done, but for a moment Peter could almost sense the killer within stir to life, as if to  _mock_ him by copying Nathan. 

 

Gabriel was still watching him steadily, although his forehead had now creased a little in worry.

 

It was all too much, too fucked up and  _way_ beyond “weird” by now. Yes, Peter had clarified that this wasn't Sylar (and he still stuck by that). And yes, he could make the guy's bed for him, give him a spare toothbrush and let him crash here. But exchanging “goodnight, sleep tight”s was just one step too far. He couldn't do it.

 

_G'night Pete._ “..Yeah.” He nodded at the ground, accepting the words without returning the gesture, and finally disappeared into the safe refuge of his own bedroom. He closed the doors calmly and purposefully walked out of Gabriel's line of sight before pressing his back to the wall, breathing in calming lungfuls of air. 

 

Get a grip! He couldn't back out of this now, he was already too involved. Besides, it was unlikely that Sylar's persona would burst out of Gabriel without warning, right? It wouldn't help anyone if Peter couldn't think straight for fear of being confronted by him at any second. He had to keep a level head.

 

But a thought had begun swirling around inside, haunting him. What exactly had he gotten himself into...?

 

*

 

The couch was surprisingly comfortable despite the height problem. But still Gabriel felt uptight, and his already achy muscles were beginning to complain again. Something had happened to Peter just then – he had seen it. But without the means to know or even guess at what it was, all he could do was wait patiently until tomorrow, when he'd finally be privy to the truth. Or at least he hoped so, if Peter would keep his word...

 

He tried to sleep, too tired and wary to attempt his first encounter with the unfamiliar shower tonight. He'd wash tomorrow and have a fresh start. The dirt and grime caked onto his skin and hair didn't bother him much – it was all he'd known and so it didn't feel wrong. What  _did_ feel wrong, however, was ending the day feeling like he'd done something bad and not knowing what.

 

But tomorrow was a new day, a fateful one, he expected, and he would hold up his vow to be a better person. Starting with showing his appreciation for Peter taking him in like this. That thought was comforting, although he still couldn't quite relax. So he lay there impatiently, listening to the loud wailing of a siren nearby, and tiny snatches of Peter seemingly talking to himself. He closed his eyes and allowed the empath's deep, husky voice to soothe him.

 

*

 

“Hey it's me. Where are you? You never let your phone ring out unless you're at a party or somewhere good.” Peter noted aloud, amused and imagining Nathan at some “boring, political, after work meeting” at an expensive bar that would be far from boring or political. “Anyway, something really weird's come up, alright? I need your help on this.” He glanced over his shoulder at the glass doors to the rest of the apartment, and lowered his voice further. “I don't know what to do. It's important. There's someone... depending on me, and I can't let him down. Call me back when you can, okay?” Peter hung up and dressed for bed, aware of Gabriel's proximity and ensuring to change in the corner of the room so he couldn't be seen. 

 

He climbed under the covers thinking of his brother and feeling so unbearably grateful that they'd made up again. He didn't think he could handle this if Nathan wasn't there to stop him jumping into stupid decisions, to sweet-talk the information of out their mother (who would, of course, tell her favourite son precious information that Peter would never be able to glean out of her), or to just let him know if he was doing a good job or not. There was so much planning and upcoming consequences to think of, but nothing that couldn't wait for another fourteen hours or so until Peter had finally captured that ever-evading, blissful sleep...

 

He passed out much too quickly for a man sleeping in the next room from a used-to-be-and-maybe-still-was-serial killer. No dreams disturbed this brief respite from the entanglement of the very game that he had sworn never to get involved in again. So much for getting away from it all.

 

He was completely unaware that Nathan wasn't in a work meeting, or at a party with multiple women too young for him swinging from each arm, or even sitting at home watching TV while nursing a whiskey.

 

He didn't know that Nathan Petrelli would never get his message. Or that the reason for that was currently drifting off into troubled, empty dreams on his couch while contemplating the best way to get Peter to like him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, that was pretty heavy – hopefully you're still with me ^.^ Thanks for reading! Check out chapter 3, up now too :)


	3. Water, Eggs and Mustard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was intended as a nice gesture for Peter doesn't exactly turn out the way Gabriel had planned...

It was the shrill screech of the smoke alarm that jolted him awake.

  
  


The sound pierced right through Peter's skull, dragging him from the depths of sleep and casting him forcefully into consciousness. At first he didn't know where he was or what was going on, and squinted blurringly at the alarm clock beside his bed: 13:23. Sunlight streamed in the windows, crisp and bright and somehow Peter had slept straight through it. And _still_ that ear-splitting scream pounded away at his eardrums.

  
  


Then, finally, he came to his senses and scrambled out of bed. “Gabriel?!” He shouted, bursting into the living room and holding both patio doors open wide. His stomach dropped at the sight before him... the couch was empty. “Gabriel!” He called again, eyes scanning the rest of the room and struggling to focus because, naturally, the noise was too loud to let his vision function properly.

  
  


There, in the kitchen, was the tall, slim figure he was searching for. The man flinched and wobbled on the spot as he tried to back away from his own hands the way he had done in the Baltimore holding room. Blue sparks fizzled into the air, emanating from both palms in static, electrical arcs.

  
  


Shit. Smoke was unfurling from him in tendrils towards the smoke alarm that was too goddamn good at its job. The guy looked terrified as well as guilty, and as soon as he noticed Peter standing watching him, broke into whimpering yells. “What's happening?! I don't know how I'm doing this!” Peter rushed over to him, but Gabriel hastily stumbled a few steps further away. “Stay back!”

  
  


Ignoring the protests, Peter ducked past the bright shocks and took hold of Gabriel's upper arm gently. “Hey, it's okay – just relax – just calm down!” He shouted over the screech of the alarm. If he didn't fix this soon, the whole building could go up in flames! “It'll stop if you calm down!” He could tell Gabriel didn't believe him, still holding his hands away and almost crying under the stress of it all. The alarm was hammering off both their skulls, and angry neighbours had started banging on the walls to shut the racket up. Peter ignored them, squeezing Gabriel's arm reassuringly. “Hey, just look at me! Look at me!” Eventually Gabriel tore his shining eyes from his fiery hands, and looked at Peter, still wincing at the sparks and his chin trembling in fear. Heart hammering under the pressure, atop such a sudden awakening, Peter somehow managed to remain calm on the outside. He raised his eyebrows, conveying the message that everything was going to be alright. “It's okay, it's okay...” He repeated, using his peripheral vision to judge the state of the electricity without drawing more attention to it by openly staring.

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel trembled and shook as he lost all control over himself and his body burned from the inside out and he was blatantly, utterly helpless to stop it! All he could do was take solace in Peter's hazel eyes, to feel the anchor of his touch and to let his voice work away at him. The pair stood still for long moments, eyes interlocked and more of Peter's reassuring words punctuating the ringing air around them.

  
  


Finally, gaining strength from Peter's presence, Gabriel felt his pulse lower and his breathing even.

  
  


*

  
  


“You're alright, it's okay... See?” Peter nodded towards the other man's hands once the ability had finally died down. He watched as Gabriel chanced a peek, seeing this too, and shuffled out of his reach. He backed into the worktop and slumped against it, scared and emotionally and physically drained. He seemed okay where he was for the moment, so Peter kicked out one of the mismatched dining chairs and stood on it to finally put a stop to the fucking smoke alarm. He disconnecting the thing and dropped it onto the floor rather too harshly for an inanimate object.

  
  


What a way to start the day, Peter mused sarcastically. He'd barely even had time to wake up, and now he'd been dropped head-first into a calamity of a morning. Psyching himself up, he tucked the chair away and walked back to Gabriel, who's chest was still heaving and who wouldn't look up. “You alright?” He asked, scanning him over quickly for any obvious sign of harm. There didn't seem to be any, but Peter noticed that Gabriel had showered and was wearing the fresh clothes that Peter had set out for him the day before. The trousers were too short and revealed an inch or two of bare, hairy ankle, but it wasn't that big a deal. At least he seemed to have taken the initiative to take care of himself a little, which was definitely a good thing.

  
  


*

  
  


“I'm sorry.” Gabriel breathed, unable to look at Peter. He felt useless, stupid and as helpless as ever. This was not how he'd planned their first meeting that day to go. And now everything was ruined because he couldn't do anything right!

  
  


“It's okay, it's not your fault. It can be scary and overwhelming at first – I was the exact same when I first discovered my abilities.”

  
  


Gabriel whipped his head to face Peter at that. “You have them too?” He breathed, as finally it clicked into place. “That's how you... at the station...?”

  
  


Peter hesitated a little at Gabriel's surprise, before closing off. As if searching for a distraction, his eyes travelled around the kitchen for the first time that morning. Gabriel felt his cheeks flush, and dreaded what he knew must be coming.

  
  


*

  
  


What the...? Evidentially Gabriel had been trying to make breakfast: the counter was strewn with shards of glass and splatters of yellow substance, egg shells were discarded nearby and the remains of a glass bowl still sat over a hob, with bits of liquid bubbling inside it. He'd tried to cook eggs in a glass bowl? Despite the mess and the danger that breaking glass could have posed, Peter had to try not to laugh. “You're hungry?”

  
  


*

  
  


Getting angry at himself, Gabriel raised his voice and flailed his arms around at the disaster of his creation. “I was trying to-! I thought that I could...! But then the thing just went and...!” He sighed, giving up, and scowled to the side, embarrassed. “I was making you breakfast.” When he glanced at Peter to discern his reaction, he was surprised to see the man looked abundantly touched by this news. It was the way he'd hoped Peter would look when coming through to see a perfectly made and presented breakfast waiting for him – _not_ when discovering Gabriel had ruined it and messed up his kitchen while he was at it. It was unexpectedly wonderful to know the effort alone was enough to earn appreciation.

  
  


“You were -? For _me_..?”

  
  


“I remembered you like that -” He gestured to the stove. “Eggs. Scrambled eggs.” He repeated the name that he had recalled earlier, out of the depths of nowhere. He'd been so proud of that achievement at the time, had felt like he'd made such huge, great progress... but now look at the state of him. Maybe he should have remembered more of the actual “cooking” part before diving right into it the way he had with only half his facts straight.

  
  


*

  
  


_'I remembered you like that'_ Peter was confused for a moment. He had never mentioned his food preferences or eaten anything in front of Sylar, let alone scrambled eggs. He wondered idly if the man had picked up a mind reading ability upon his hunting, or spied on him before without Peter knowing...? Then pushed those thoughts away. They were irrelevant – it didn't matter how he knew. What mattered was here was a nice guy who had gotten a nasty scare while trying to do something thoughtful for someone else.

  
  


“Thank you.” He said strongly, smiling at Gabriel who echoed it slightly. He looked relieved that Peter was happy, which only made Peter more pleased. “ _Are_ you hungry through? I can start over?” He offered, his own stomach growling at the prospect of food. Gabriel nodded so Peter started cleaning the mess. He stalled for time, clearing up the entire counter and as much of the bowl as he could find. Then gathered some new eggs – thank god he had some: these four were the only proper food he had in the entire place except an ancient jar of mustard festering at the back of his hollow fridge. Going shopping was mentally added to that day's to-do list, now that he had a guest he couldn't keep the place empty like he had for far too long. If finding Sylar's apartment proved to be more difficult than he'd initially thought then he supposed Gabriel might have to stay here for a few days. Or at least until (late) lunch time.

  
  


“So, uh... what happened before...” He said carefully, not wanting to start off another bout of unhinged abilities. “That's what I was gonna tell you about today. I'd hoped to do it before you found out on your own, but...” He shrugged his shoulders, busying himself with cracking the new eggs.

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel sat at the table, just watching and waiting while Peter poured in the last dregs of the milk carton and began beating the mixture in a fresh bowl, but he wasn't really paying attention to that. “You can do it too?” He repeated his question from earlier, the one that Peter had avoided.

  
  


The stirring stopped, and Peter turned around, giving him the courtesy of looking at him while explaining something as important as this. “Yeah. Sometimes. Sometimes I can do other things. I'm -” He broke off, laughing to himself and lifting the bowl around so he could whisk while facing Gabriel. “ _We're s_ pecial. We're gifted. Nobody knows exactly why we got these... we call them “abilities”. All that we know is that there's lots of people with them around the world, and lots of different abilities out there. We have to hide them though. Most of the world doesn't know people like us exist. If they _did_...” Peter trailed off, lost in thought.

  
  


Listening intently, Gabriel's mind worked while he absent-mindedly watched a sliver of glass on the floor that Peter had missed. _Abilities... gifted..._ It all sounded so bizarre, but so did everything else Gabriel had learned about the world so far, and he wondered why Peter had wanted to save this until today. It's not like Gabriel really knew what was “normal” and what wasn't, so the news wasn't exactly the type of bombshell he supposed it would be for normally-functioning minds to comprehend.

  
  


“But you and me...” Peter fished out a frying pan and poured the bowl's contents into it, making Gabriel's earlier embarrassment wash over him anew. He'd searched for one of those, apparently not very well, and so had gone with the next best thing that had turned out to decidedly _not_ _b_ e the next best thing to expose to a heated temperature. Apparently he was 'gifted'... yet this 'special, gifted' man couldn't even cook breakfast without causing a disaster or two.

  
  


*

  
  


“We're even more different than everyone else. We can... _imitate_... other people's abilities. I used to be able to hold lots at once, but now I can only replicate one at a time. _You_... I don't even know how many you have!” Peter stopped pushing the eggs around to look over his shoulder at Gabriel, trying to make that sound impressive rather than scary.

  
  


“Which...abilities do I have?”

  
  


Gabriel seemed to be taking the news very well. This was either a comfort or a warning sign, and as Peter couldn't decide on which, he veered hopefully towards 'comfort'. “I'm not sure. I know a couple of them, but there must be loads I've never seen you use.” He tried not to think of the victims who had died to grant Sylar those trinkets that likely never even saw the light of day. “The ones I'm certain of are...” He thought back through all his encounters with Sylar. “Telekinesis – it's kinda your trademark. That means moving things with your mind without touching them. Pretty cool.” When it's not being used it to slice skulls open that is, he added silently. “Electricity, clearly.” Like Elle could do. Peter wondered briefly if that's where Sylar got it from. Did he kill her too? “Uh... there's also radioactive heat from your hands...” Future Gabriel had been able to paint the future, but as Peter was unsure whether or not Sylar had obtained it yet, he decided not to mention it and moved swiftly on. “Shape-shift into other people and... tell if someone's lying to you. That's all I got.”

  
  


He was sure that was all the ones he knew, and turned to Gabriel at the end of his recounting. Only then did he realise that he hadn't exactly been pulling his punches there, and the poor guy looked at a loss of what to do with himself.

  
  


*

  
  


“I can really do all of that...?” It sounded amazing, but Gabriel doubted it was true (that would make him important, and he certainly didn't feel important now) but Peter had no reason to lie.

  
  


“As far as I know. What happened here earlier to make your hands start sparking?”

  
  


Gabriel thought back to those minutes before. He'd been so pleased with himself for cracking the eggs so well and mixing the runny substance until there were no lumps to be found. That was as far as he had known, so tried to be brave and wing the rest of it. Not a good idea, as it turned out. “The bowl. It broke.”

  
  


“You got a fright?”

  
  


“Yes. And I was angry.”

  
  


*

  
  


That didn't bode well considering Sylar's past angry outbursts, so Peter swooped in with a reasonable substitute to divert Gabriel away from “anger”. “So it was strong emotions that kicked it into action. That's good, but you can learn to control your abilities whenever you want, it's not that hard. They're part of you. Try to use one now: try to tell if I'm lying.” Peter invited, making it sound like a game.

  
  


The lie detector was one of the most harmless powers he had thought of, and if he was to avoid more future outbursts or accidents like that morning's then he'd have to train Gabriel up a bit. It was best to start small he decided, turning off the heat and separating the eggs onto two plates.

  
  


*

“Okay. How will I know if it's working?”

  
  


“I dunno, I guess you'll just feel it somehow. Ready?”

  
  


Gabriel tensed, unsure about this. Shooting electric bolts from his hands had not exactly been a pleasant surprise, and he was wary about experiencing another power so soon. But his trust of Peter was stronger than his own reluctance. “Yes. I'm ready.”

  
  


“Right. Hmmm...” Peter looked around the room for a source of inspiration, settling on the plates before him. “I hate scrambled eggs.” Gabriel blinked at him. Nothing. “I have a dog.” Peter chose wildly, watching Gabriel closely for his reaction. Still nothing. So he continued, finding some hollow humour in his next, mumbled words. “I have loads of friends who love me and would never use me for their own personal gain.”

  
  


Still Gabriel felt nothing, except sympathy and confusion. He assumed that was a lie, as was the purpose of the game, but how could someone this warm and compassionate _not_ have loads of friends who loved him?! The answer was beyond Gabriel's limited grasp of reason.

  
  


“Did it work?” Peter asked, carrying the plates to the table, placing one in front of Gabriel and sitting across from him.

  
  


“No.”

  
  


“Maybe you have to ask me a question and _then_ _I_ lie?”

  
  


They tucked into their small meals, accompanied by bottles of water (all there was to choose from) that Gabriel had looked out before the bowl had exploded on him. Only after taking the first bite did Gabriel realise how hungry he really was – he hadn't eaten a thing since some Drive Thru fries on the way back to New York yesterday, so to him the eggs tasted like perfection. “What should I ask?”

  
  


“I dunno. Anything you want.” Peter said absently, munching away on his breakfast.

  
  


Hmmm, anything at all that Gabriel wanted to know... something that meant a lot to him and would maybe motivate his power to come to life...

  
  


When he had woken during late morning, he had laid on the couch just thinking as Peter still slept on soundly. It had finally dawned on him, the little ways that Peter reacted around him from time to time. “Are you afraid of me?” He asked quietly, although he was already pretty sure of the answer.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter choked down his eggs, suddenly not having fun anymore. Shit, what could he say to that? He had to lie – that was the whole point of the game. But then the opposite of his answer would be the truth, and he didn't want to upset Gabriel. Unless he didn't lie so Gabriel only _thought_ _h_ e did... but then there's no point in testing his ability at all if they're going to cheat like that. Then there was the real question: _was_ Peter afraid of Gabriel? Yes, was the honest answer.

  
  


“No.” He said untruthfully. And this time Gabriel hitched a little breath and gripped the edge of the table.

  
  


*

  
  


He felt it! A tickle! A vibration tingling along his spine, neck and skull, just a sign that _something_ was off. It was bizarre, a totally new sensation, yet it didn't feel like the first time he'd felt it. He didn't need to say it aloud, Peter knew it had worked. Gabriel laughed a little, still gripping the table and wanting to feel the ripple through his body again.

  
  


Then he recalled Peter's answer and his good mood faded. Suddenly he felt guilty and out of place, as if he was too big and in the way. “Why are you afraid of me?” He asked, feeling regret fill him up for something he couldn't even remember doing.

  
  


*

  
  


Fuck, now Peter couldn't even lie his way out of this! Maybe the lie detector hadn't really been the best choice of abilities to awaken. But it was too late for that now. He had no choice but to be honest.

  
  


“Because I don't know what you're gonna do to me. Or anyone else, alright? It makes me nervous. I don't think you'll purposely try to hurt anyone Gabriel, but if you lose control of your abilities, or you get upset... you could cause some serious damage.” Actually this was a good thing to say aloud. How could Gabriel be careful if he didn't know he had to be in the first place?

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel looked straight into Peter's eyes, and for the first time felt like more than a little pathetic ball of nothing that needed looking after. For once _he_ was the one instilling strength and reassurance into another person rather than the other way around. “I will never hurt you Peter.” He promised with everything he had. “Again.” He added quietly, having interpreted that he most likely had hurt him in the past.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter only smiled out of politeness, worried that Gabriel might have remembered more about their past than he was letting on. It was nice to hear that promise though, and he wanted to believe him. But by now he knew better than to let his guard down fully around a confused, unstable, super-powered man. The conversation silently died, and the pair went back to their eggs, more reserved than they had been before.

  
  


Finally it was Gabriel who thoughtfully interrupted the stretching of nothing but the scraping of cutlery on plates. “How do we procure other people's powers?”

  
  


Peter leaned back in his chair to think over his options, swallowing his last mouthful. “I can show you if you want?” At Gabriel's nod of assent, he lent across the table and picked up one of his hands in both of his own. For a while the men did nothing but stare at their clasped hands, waiting...

  
  


*

  
  


Being touched by Peter sent tingles not unlike the lie-detector feeling spawning through Gabriel, most strong in his squirming stomach, but he kept his face calm and unreadable. The sensation of butterflies travelled through his body, making him almost light-headed, turning his arm and hand numb where Peter's warm skin encased his own. Then Gabriel suddenly realised he could actually _see_ the tingling with his own eyes: a golden light transferring something from himself to Peter. Oh – so _t_ _his_ was how he did it. It was done so subtly, so carefully and tenderly. Just like Peter, he thought privately.

  
  


*

  
  


The deep well of powers was unusual for Peter to explore, as he had never had the chance to dwell on them like this or take his time to choose before. He restrained from going too deep, scared of what he might find, and instead skirted around the edges of the large library of options presented for him. After a while he felt the pull of a nice, familiar ability: flight. He hadn't known Sylar had that one, and for a second his heart jolted and he panicked for Nathan with every particle of his being. But then remembered he'd spoken to his brother since Sylar had been burned, so it must have been some other poor soul who had had his power ripped from them.

  
  


Regardless of who it came from, flying was Peter's favourite and always had been. It reminded him of his brother and of a time Peter had felt himself balancing on the precipice of discovering something new and wonderful in his life (as well as literally balancing on the edge of that rooftop where everything had started). So he took the power.

  
  


The golden light faded and Peter leaned back again, dropping Gabriel's hand and feeling the amnesiac's fingers tighten briefly, as if reluctant to let Peter go. He chose to ignore that motion and the accompanying lurching sensation in his gut.

  
  


“That's it?”

  
  


“That's it.” Peter confirmed. He purposefully omitted the part where Sylar hadn't _quite_ done it that way.

  
  


“What did you take?” Gabriel asked, intrigued.

  
  


Peter's lips curved even saying the word. “Flying.”

  
  


“I can _fly_?”

  
  


“Apparently, yeah. Wanna go for a race around the block later?” Peter joked, and Gabriel nodded solemnly.

  
  


“Once I get more control over my... my powers, perhaps.” His deep, dark eyes fell to where Peter's hand lay on the tabletop, and he licked his lips shyly. “Can I try?” He turned his face up then, looking so hopeful and eager that Peter didn't even notice him reaching out until pink fingers curled around his own. Gabriel lifted Peter's hand up, concentrating on it intently.

  
  


“Uh... I think... yours works differently.” Peter said tightly, aware that without an ability at work, he was just holding hands with a mass murderer for no good reason. Even in Baltimore the gesture had been to reassure and soothe, but this gained nothing but an uncomfortable knot in Peter's stomach.

  
  


Gabriel interrupted his focus to look up at Peter, frowning slightly. “In what way?”

  
  


Under the guise of pushing his hair away from his face, Peter pulled his hand free and didn't return it after. The hand-holding had unnerved him, mostly because it had felt so foreign to be held like that, even for such a short time.

  
  


Moving on, terrified of stirring the deadly hunger for power within the other man, and still unable to lie, Peter decided just to go vague again. “You understand how abilities work. You just need to... to get a glimpse of one, a close look at it, and then you understand it... and... you get it.”

  
  


*

  
  


That sounded sensible enough, and Gabriel accepted that explanation soundly. Except he had been close to Peter while he had used a power to get them out of the police station and not copied it, neither had he now while Peter's ability had been active right in front of him – _on_ him, even. He assumed that his “understanding” power was yet another thing he had to learn in his huge new world that he'd found himself thrust into. He already suspected he'd lost the handle on the anti-lie power too. He couldn't feel it alive within him anymore, but it had been fun while it lasted.

  
  


*

  
  


A loud car horn sounding from the street outside broke the thoughtful atmosphere in the apartment, and Peter became all too aware that he was sitting in his sleeping garments at nearly 2pm, and he still had to see his mother and go shopping. So he stood to clear the table, but Gabriel jumped up first, taking the plates and dumping them in the sink. He looked pleased with himself at doing that correctly, and seemingly trying to be more helpful, bent to collect a shard of glass from the floor which Peter hadn't seen until now.

  
  


But then Gabriel hissed, retracting his arm and staring, wide-eyed. Thick, dark blood welled up and spilled over a deep cut on the heel of his hand.

  
  


*

  
  


Pain was unlike anything Gabriel had experienced so far. The sting of the gash and the sight of the blood sickened him – calling up unwanted, vivid images of blood: spread over a concrete floor and marring a mural of some kind; smeared on walls in both gruesome splatters and actual _words_ ; on his hands, dripping down his wrists, his forearms, running right to his elbows...

  
  


*

  
  


Peter hurried to Gabriel's side, worried the guy was about to faint. It certainly seemed possible by the expression on his face and the slump to his stance. Was it the blood? Yet another thing to contrast from the killer who used to practically drown in the stuff.

  
  


“Let me see...” He offered kindly, examining Gabriel's hand. The blood was flowing freely and showed no sign of stopping soon. “Yeah that's pretty deep, c'mere...” Gabriel allowed Peter to fuss over him, leading him to the sink to clean the wound and then wrapping his hand tightly with the dish towel.

  
  


“How can you stay so calm?” Gabriel asked thickly, as if his nose was blocked.

  
  


“I'm used to it, it's my job.” Peter smiled at him, putting pressure on the wound and catching Gabriel's wince. “I'm a paramedic. Used to be a nurse.”

  
  


“Oh.” Was all Gabriel said, and Peter was left wondering if he needed to explain what “paramedic” and “nurse” meant. But then Gabriel followed up with a quiet mumble, still with the tones of a sinus problem. “So you help people for a living?”

  
  


“As much as I can. I do my best, but there's not always enough I can do.” Peter admitted, hating that truth. It always ate away at him – if he still had his original ability he could be _faster, stronger_ and a _healer_ all at once. He could fly an injured person to the hospital, or better yet, stop time or even _rewind_ time to stop the accident from happening in the first place...

  
  


“Your job suits you.”

  
  


Peter was brought back from the depths of his wallowing to be greeted by a warm little smile from Gabriel. It made him blush, both the compliment and the close scrutiny. He'd never been accustomed to praise (having had to actively seek it out his whole life to no avail) and so much at once from this person of all people was overwhelming. Peter appreciated it, he really did, but he just didn't know how to accept it. So he changed the subject back to the matter at hand.

  
  


“Normally I would bandage this up now, but I just remembered another ability you have that I forgot to mention. Regeneration: your body can heal super fast if you let it.”

  
  


*

  
  


The pain in his hand drew most of Gabriel's attention, and he hadn't digested Peter's words fully yet before the cloth was unwound and lifted from his red, still flowing hand. It was so sickeningly similar to those flashes of nightmares... “I can't!” He blurted, turning his face away and gasping for breath before holding it in again to block out the metallic scent and taste in the air.

  
  


“Yes. You can.” Peter insisted, squeezing Gabriel's wrist gently with the hand keeping his wounded one aloft. So Gabriel forced himself to look back at it, at Peter's sturdy hold on him, and focus.

  
  


*

  
  


“Just concentrate. It'll work, I promise.” Peter said, watching between the guy's hand and face. His expression was one of utter engrossment and effort, this time aimed on a much more innocent target than usual. Peter tightened his fingers a little more, willing Gabriel to do this, to get an understanding of himself and his limitations (and with this, he hoped, his responsibilities).

  
  


Sure enough, the cut finally began to shrink as the skin knitted itself back together. Gabriel couldn't believe his eyes at first, but Peter's smile stretched wider as he watched his companion master this crucial part of his being. It was rewarding to have helped him complete this milestone, one he would have come across at one time or another. He smeared more fresh blood away with the now stained and ruined towel, revealing the smooth, untarnished skin beneath. It was as if it never happened.

  
  


*

  
  


“See? All better.” Peter murmured, eyes crinkling. He was standing so close to Gabriel that he could actually feel heat radiating off the smaller body. His recently healed hand began to tingle under Peter's soft brushing with the towel, and more of those butterflies erupted inside him. He would have suspected Peter was taking another ability from him right then if he couldn't see both the guy's hands to exclude that possibility. So this time, Gabriel concluded, it must be all his own doing...

  
  


*

  
  


Okay... now we're just standing looking into each others eyes, Peter realised, breaking their eye contact and stepping back a little. He needed to distance himself, to get some space from the mixed signals his brain was giving and receiving here, drunk under all of Gabriel's appreciation and admiration. They hadn't even spent a waking moment apart since Peter had first laid eyes on the broken soul hunched at the metal table beside Dr Gibson, and it seemed like all that proximity was getting to him. Peter was well aware of his unfortunate habit of latching onto someone until he inevitably became overbearing and was subsequently dropped and crushed for his efforts. This had happened so many times, even more so in recent years... Simone, Mohinder, Claude, Adam, Tracey, Matt, Noah... but he would _not_ _l_ et that happen now. Not when Gabriel actually needed help, and his emotions shouldn't have been a contributing factor at all.

  
  


Which reminded him: he really ought to get dressed – he had work to do today.

  
  


*

  
  


“I'd best get rid of this.” Peter excused himself, removing the towel along with his presence, wrapping the piece of glass up in the bloody cloth to dispose of. Gabriel was left staring after him, awed and inspired by this new found skill. And now that Peter wasn't distractingly taking up his airspace, he really took the time to bask in his successful use of an ability. He was getting somewhere after all...

  
  


“Wow.” Gabriel huffed, adjusting his attention from Peter's retreating mop of tousled hair and onto his hand, where it really should be. He made a fist, running his fingers over where the gash had been just moments ago. Not even a scar.

  
  


He wondered what other extraordinary tasks he could be capable of, and if all the crazy things Peter had said about him could really be _true_... It would be only too easy to succumb to fear or intimidation by all this supposed power rolling around inside him, and perhaps Gabriel would have done. If he didn't have Peter.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! I'm more than happy to get any comments - hearing what people think is always motivation to do more ^.^ Hopefully chapter 4 will be up before too long :)


	4. For Friend or Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to put it off any longer, Peter pays a friendly visit to his dear old mother...

“Hello dear. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  
  


Angela Petrelli smiled sweetly over the top of her glossy magazine, noting the impressive landing of her youngest son. She hadn't seen him fly often, but it always surprised her to see how graceful he was at it. Funny, she had always imagined that Nathan would be better of the two, and still had trouble quashing that idea from time to time.

  
  


*

  
  


Dreading the looming confrontation, Peter crossed the luxurious garden of his family home, lips pursed but eyebrows light to soften his visible irritation. At last he approached his mother, who was reclining on a deckchair, resplendent as always and the ultimate picture of demure importance. It wasn't a particularly hot day, but Angela Petrelli had always set her own rules. The thought of anyone or anything attempting to control her was laughable, and such an insignificant thing as the weather wouldn't stop her from relaxing in the sun if that was what she wanted to do.

  
  


Not moving a muscle, she waited innocently, face tilted, for Peter to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek. He did so more out of routine than desire to, but the intent to sweeten her up a bit wasn't far from the forefront of his mind. Before he could straighten up, Angela grabbed his chin with one bejewelled hand, holding him in place and examining his face intently the way only a mother would do. Peter shifted a little, self-conscious of his overgrown hair, facial scruff and the shadows under his eyes that weeks of working non-stop (as well as the recent strain on his conscience and mind) had imprinted on him. A hint of a frown marred Angela's forehead as she took him in, before an impeccably composed facade shooed it away.

  
  


She squeezed his cheeks slightly, as one would a toddler and not a grown man. “You look terrible dear. What have I told you about working so much?”

  
  


This time Peter managed to successfully pull out of her grasp and stood back, arms crossed. “Good to see you too, Ma.” He said dryly.

  
  


If anyone were to watch this greeting, they would never know that so many unresolved problems were bubbling beneath the surface here. Angela, for her part, was doing an excellent job of pretending everything was fine between them, the way it had been for the first twenty six years of Peter's life. But it could never be the same now.

 

Still, he missed that innocence, the unconditional love and trust he had once had for the woman who had half raised him (the multiple nannies and Nathan had filled in the other half), and even now he caught himself _almost_ believing her performance. But then he was strongly reminded of the tortured, violated, gentle man who was reluctantly waiting back at the apartment and everything that had been wrongfully done to him. As much as Peter wanted things to revert to how they used to be with his mother – there were too many unanswered questions and awful plots brewing away behind that immaculate hairdo and expensive lipstick to ignore.

  
  


Still aware of her scarily perceptive eyes searching him over, Peter softened his stance and tried to hide his reluctance to be here and the reason for visiting from his face. But he knew she could read him anyway. Yet another of his mother's many skills: she could sniff out any secret or hidden agenda a mile away.

  
  


A tense moment passed in which he wondered if Angela was about to tell him off or shut him down directly. But then she turned her attention back to her magazine as if his visit was of no real importance. “Sit down Peter. Why don't you have a drink?” She said vaguely, waving a hand in the general direction of the nearby bar.

  
  


Peter sat down on the edge of the adjacent deckchair, elbows on his knees. It was a planned, gentle pose: honest and quietly assertive, and he set his tone to match. “No thanks, I can't stay long. I need to ask you someth -”

  
  


“Have you seen Nathan recently?” She interrupted him, face still buried in the page but eyes unmoving.

  
  


“Yeah, I saw him a couple of days ago. Anyway, what I was saying -”

  
  


“Have you heard from him since then?”

  
  


Peter sighed, used to her unashamed favouritism and her tricks of avoidance. She was onto him – she knew he was here on more than a social call and was trying to throw him off the scent. “No. He's busy Ma, I've left him messages.” After the eventful breakfast earlier, Peter had called his brother again to ask for moral support during this visit. But he assumed Nathan was still irritated with him for forgetting to return his calls over the past few weeks and so was now returning the favour, leaving Peter to tackle this confrontation alone.

  
  


*

  
  


This didn't satisfy Angela's niggling worry. Her mother's intuition had been prickling more frequently recently (not to mention her dreams), and she knew Peter's answer wasn't reliable. The boy meant well, but when it came to Nathan he was decidedly blind. However, his apparent involvement in some new mission or other meant yet another worm had come crawling from the woodwork. He had come to her seeking answers, she assumed. And she had a nasty feeling she knew what the questions would be about.

 

Stubborn as ever, Peter trundled on. “Ma, listen to me.” She saw him shuffle his weight slightly in her peripheral vision, and reach out a warm, gentle hand to unclasp one of hers from her magazine and cradle it instead. Forced to abandon her excuse not to look at him, she finally relented and looked straight into the eyes of her youngest - her remaining - son. So beautiful, just as he'd always been. So hopeful, and sure to be hurt and broken in return for his valiant efforts. She didn't even need to see this foretold in a dream: it was the way it always went.

  
  


“I came to ask you something Ma. And I want you to be honest with me, okay?”

  
  


“Don't patronize me Peter, just come out with it.” Angela sighed, her previous kindly air fading to a clipped tone now that the jig was up and they were back to this. It always reverted back to this. It was just how they were now.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter drew in a deep breath and squeezed his mother's hand, savouring this brief moment before yet another horrific detail about her past actions was unburied to tarnish his idea of her even more. “What did you do to Sylar? What happened... after the cremation?”

  
  


She didn't need to hear any more words from him. “He's back?” She said shortly. Although it was posed as a question, in truth it was far from it. The utter lack of surprise or even remorse chipped away a little bit more of Peter's heart. She knew. Of course she had known.

  
  


He nodded curtly, unable to look at her for a moment, although her hand was still in his. A loving gesture, but it was completely hollow. “Yeah.” He huffed, thinking of Gabriel, then forcing himself to look his mother in the face. “But he's... different. What did you do to him...? I _know_ it was you.”

  
  


*

  
  


So Sylar had returned. Angela had suspected so, and as usual – she was right. She was always right. But that didn't make moments like these taste any sweeter. _Nathan..._ the heartbreaking thought was not one to dwell on when she had company, and especially not when said company could ruin everything if he _found out_...

 

Yes, Peter was blinded by love when it came to Nathan: astoundingly unobservant at times, but more loyal to her eldest than anyone else would ever be – or had ever been. His interest in Sylar didn't bode well, but she doubted this was about the incident at The Stanton Hotel... no, this was about something else. She felt safe to assume Peter's ignorance: if the empath knew that something had happened to his brother, the whole world would surely know about it. There would be no stopping him on his fruitless path to attain justice. And she couldn't lose him too. She wouldn't.

  
  


So Angela Petrelli did what she did best: smoothed things over with clever words and an unreadable demeanour.

  
  


*

  
  


“Don't be ridiculous dear. How could I be involved? I gave up my part in the company after your father died -”

  
  


Put Peter was having none of it. “You're always involved, Ma. Don't lie to me.” He said softly, sternly, and only then did the idea hit him, much too late: how stupid did he have to be _not_ _t_ o borrow Gabriel's lie detecting power for this visit?! It would have made everything so much easier, painfully so, in fact. He wished he hadn't flown in front of her, so he could have at least pretended to currently have it. But that, like so many other things, was something now outside of his control.

  
  


The two Petrellis stared intently at each other; one trying to wriggle out of explaining herself, and the other refusing to let her. There was a time when Peter would have never dared challenge the steely glare of his mother, but that time was long gone. Eventually, Angela sighed. She pulled her hand free from Peter's slack fingers and started fussing with the collar of his coat as she talked, anything for an excuse not to look at him... which only cemented it. She was guilty.

  
  


“We tried to stop him. For good. We needed a way to get rid of him and ensure he never bothered anyone ever again.”

  
  


“Yeah, I got that part,” Peter said silkily, lowering his voice and putting emphasis on the importance of his words, “What I wanna know is: what did you do to his _head?_ He's not himself. He doesn't remember who he is or what he's done – and I need to know what you did to make him this way.”

  
  


*

  
  


This was... interesting to say the least. The last she knew of it, Matt Parkman was more than pre-occupied with this Sylar business too, and so she hadn't exactly expected the serial killer to bounce back in top form. But a clean slate...? This opened up limitless possibilities of how to play out this whole event. Without a conscious Sylar to prove her words false... Angela could spin this any which way she desired. All for the sake of protecting her family of course: a mother's curse as well as her blessing.

  
  


Once the ever-active, scheming part of her deft brain had time to settle, the rest of Peter's words began to impact. Her hands stilled their incessant grooming, and a weight slid into her stomach. “You've met him.” She stated, a mixture of outrage and curiosity keeping her voice level and face unreadable.

  
  


*

  
  


“Yeah I met him. I had to collect him from _jail_ , because he had no idea _where_ or _who_ he was, thanks to what you and your “people” did to him!” Peter ranted, unable to keep his anger inside any longer. He shrugged out of Angela's manicured talons, disgusted just being near her.

  
  


Everything Gabriel had been through these past two days had happened at the hands of this woman... the memory of his haunted, damaged soul but still somehow hopeful eyes ate away at Peter now. The many cold, calculating, manipulative acts that Angela had bestowed upon her own sons paled in comparison to what she had done to Gabriel. Peter didn't care about himself right now, he tried to tuck away his unresolved feelings and petty problems and put Gabriel first. There was always another time to attempt another heart-to-heart with his mother, where she was just as sure to send him packing unsatisfied as she was now. But _this_... this was important. This needed resolving _now_.

  
  


The only problem was, that was easier said than done.

  
  


It had felt productive to have a plan. When everything had been “I'll sort it tomorrow” or “I'll handle it later, all I have to do is such and such...”, Peter had felt almost brave. But now that he was here – he felt like nothing more than a self-righteous kid who had no hopes of challenging the big leagues. He was (which he hated) not “worthy” of the important details or even some recognition for his efforts.

 

It was the same old routine: she would feed him little drops of revised information here and there, only as much as she thought he was allowed to handle, but never enough to satisfy him. This method had some unpleasant, ringing similarities with how Peter had shared his knowledge with Gabriel: except he had genuinely done it for Gabriel's benefit, whereas Angela only ever did what was best for herself and her own motivations. This infuriated Peter, it always had, but now more than ever because he wasn't just fighting for himself anymore... he was fighting for himself _and_ Gabriel.

  
  


“And I don't care what you have to say about it.” Thankfully, he sounded more assertive than he felt. “I've promised to help him, and I need you to tell me how to fix him.”

  
  


*

  
  


“Fix him?” Angela snapped, slowly piecing the dots together. “ _Help_ him?” Then she realised. This wasn't at all borne from wanting to make her squirm under guilt... this was a charity case. Peter had gotten himself entangled in yet another “heroic” mission, a distorted, disgusting, twisted one at that. But then, he didn't _know_ why that was... so how could she possibly expect him to think so?

  
  


“Yes! Help him!” Peter repeated, gaze boring right into hers, faulty lip sitting more askew than usual because he was angry. Oh Peter... his urge to prove himself was always the key to his own undoing. That unquenchable thirst to compensate for his own perceived failings in life would ruin him one day. Angela looked upon him with withheld pity, privy to the full picture while Peter desperately clung to just a piece. It was all wrong. He was so sure about his cause, so insistent and passionate about doing the “right thing”... if only he knew the means she had gone to to preserve the “right thing” for their family.

  
  


Yet, good intentions aside, if he kept pushing at this... he could unravel everything. Everything she'd worked so hard to sustain these past few months. “And why on earth would you want to “help” him?” She wrinkled her nose slightly, hoping to discourage him by exaggerating the ludicrousness of his actions.

  
  


*

  
  


Taking a deep breath, Peter tried to stay calm. But it was difficult to do so when faced with the woman's detachment from her misdeeds. What had he said to Gabriel yesterday? ' _We need to take responsibility for our actions_ '. It was seriously fucked up that a fragile, clueless man agreed with that more strongly than this highly intelligent woman did. The unfairness of it all made Peter's skin prickle, and he wouldn't have been surprised to see blue electrical arcs dancing along his arms right then.

 

“Because somebody has to. It's not right to just drop him in the dirt and leave him there to rot. He's a human being, like me, like...” after a moment's hesitation he managed to ground the word out, “you. He deserves a shot at trying to make something of himself.”

  
  


*

  
  


The sincerity in his face and tone was _not_ encouraging. It seemed like the man was already in too deep. Far too deep to extract as easily as she had initially thought. Getting worried now, a mixture of panic and fury leaked into her voice. “It's not up to you to rescue him! Just leave it be!”

  
  


Peter leaned back on the deckchair as if to re-assess the woman before him. Damn it – she'd given too much away. “Why?” He countered, suddenly curious. Then let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes at her. “He's not gunning for you, or our family any longer. He's not a threat anymore – why have you harboured such a war against him? It should be the other way around! You and Dad sure screwed him up good with your bullshi-”

  
  


“ _That's enough_!” Angela shrieked, the tendons in her neck standing out vividly. “You have _no idea_ what you're talking about!”

  
  


“Oh yeah? And why is that...? Maybe if someone told me what's going on round here for once – I _would_ know more of what I'm talking about!” Finally his forced calm shattered, his hands shook where they gripped the plastic edge of the deckchair, and an expression so raw decorated his usually gentle face.

  
  


It wasn't often that Peter let his emotions show on the surface. Not often at all. It was the rarity of that reaction and such passion burning behind his shining eyes that constricted Angela's airway. This strong, powerful man had grown a long way in such a short time. He wasn't her little boy anymore, and she couldn't control him now, as much as she wanted to. Peter had always put his all into every battle, and this one was no different. He just didn't know he was fighting for the wrong side, thereby betraying his family... her precious Nathan...

  
  


A pleasant breeze toyed around the garden, yet the air was tense and palpable despite it. Angela was once again haunted by the memory that she could never, ever forget: her baby boy... limp and still warm... stolen by the same sick, psychotic man who now it seemed had taken her other baby from her as well. Her voice trembled as it left her lips. “Peter, look at yourself! Why would you want anything to do with that animal? Think of what he's _done_!”

  
  


“I don't care what he's done! You ripped his soul out – it's inhumane, Ma! You haven't seen him, you don't know what it's done to him!”

  
  


Angela would have stamped her foot had she been standing. Instead she settled on flailing her fists up and down to better convey her frustration. “You don't know what you're messing with! Leave him alone and get on with your life -”

  
  


“Then _tell me_! Tell me what I'm dealing with here! What – d'you think I can't _t_ _ake_ it?! That I can't _handle_ the truth?! Huh?!” Peter's pained yell tore out around the serene-looking garden.

  
  


Yes. That was exactly it. If only he knew that she was only trying to protect him. But she couldn't bring herself to reply. There was too much at stake here.

  
  


*

  
  


Well, that had accelerated quickly – from tight words and competing frowns, to openly shouting in each other's faces. It was undignified, and the neighbours might hear, but Peter didn't give a damn about them. His blood was surging and he was biting back _s_ _o_ _much more_ that he yearned to spit out at last, after years of repressing his crushing feelings of isolation and disdain. But he didn't. He held fast, chewing his tongue and waiting for a reply he knew was never coming.

  
  


For a long while there was silence between them, punctuated only by the chirping of birds in the hedges and the sounds of city life beyond the high garden walls. Then finally, Peter took a deep breath and reminded himself why he was here and that blowing up like this was not going to get him the answers he needed. This was feeling increasingly like a dead end, and he would be lucky to get any worthwhile information at all from his mother, let alone enough to placate years of unfinished business. So, deciding to be the bigger person here, he tucked yet another torn, prematurely blunted conversation away into the festering pile of them, and carried stiffly on.

  
  


“Fine.” He huffed out a little breath. It was all that was allowed to be expressed of his pent up rage. “Don't tell me what you did. Just tell me how to fix him.” His voice wavered slightly with the effort to contain it. She knew much, much more than she was letting on and it seemed, once again, that the thing Peter wanted to reach most was stored high out of his grasp.

  
  


*

  
  


To the extent of Angela's knowledge, as long as Parkman was kept well and truly away from Sylar's physical presence then there could be no risk of uniting his body and soul. So if Peter kept up this ridiculous act of babysitter, then he would be in no danger. But then, without Parkman... the game was up. It truly was the end, despite her best attempts at prolonging the inevitable. _Oh Nathan_...

  
  


*

  
  


She must have been winded by the argument, he decided. For looking off into nothing, as if lost in thought, Angela replied in almost a daze. “You can't fix him. Sylar is gone. Whoever is in that body is _not_ the same man he once was, and never will be again.”

  
  


Peter's heart thudded painfully against his ribcage as he let this process. “He can't come back?”

  
  


“No.” She said solemnly, as if putting the case to rest at last. This was the first thing she'd said that day that Peter actually believed was unfiltered and, most importantly, _true_.

  
  


“So... Sylar is _gone_! Like, the murderer Sylar?” He quickly corrected, unwilling to explain too much about Gabriel and his current state of being. Angela Petrelli lived behind her secrets, and Peter Petrelli could damn well keep some of his own in return. For instance, he would never admit aloud that his mind was now spinning with possibilities: without the threat of a looming Sylar being able to assume control, Gabriel's future was now open and filled with potential! He could do anything, _be_ anything... once he learned how to survive in the world, of course, which Peter would offer to help him do...

  
  


“Yes.” Angela huffed, blinking slowly and looking wilted somehow. It was as if it had pained her to say this aloud, and now a part of her had been extracted, leaving her to look just a bit older, to sit just a bit lower. “So leave this alone Peter. It doesn't concern you. Go back to your life, to your “saving people”, and forget about Sylar. You can't do anything for him, and I don't want to see you get too invested in this. It'll only end in heartbreak, and you'll get no appreciation for your efforts.”

  
  


Peter's secret smile faded as he was dragged out of imagination and back to cold, harsh reality. He frowned. “You're wrong, Ma. Gabriel _does_ appreciate me. He's the only person who does.” He said, meaning it truthfully while also as a little dig towards Angela.

  
  


At the word “Gabriel” her lips tightened subtly, but Peter missed it. He was too pre-occupied now with his own thoughts. Had he actually done it? “Solved” at least a part of Gabriel's problem? It seemed too easy. And he hadn't even really _done_ anything himself. “So you're _sure_ he won't just wake up one day as his old self?”

  
  


*

  
  


Not if Parkman is never nearby him, she thought icily, despairing and mourning inside for all she had just lost once again. It didn't hurt as much as it had the first time, in Washington. She had known this was coming, at least that softened the blow a minute amount. It had never been a matter of 'if', it had always been a matter of 'when'.

  
  


“I'm sure. But Sylar is none of your business Peter. Please – leave him be.” She warned, scared by the memory of dreams that had haunted her recently. Countless scenes, tainted with rivalling emotions and contrasting realities, all of her youngest son and Sylar. She had watched them fight until both men were bruised and bloody, she'd watched them argue until one broke first and fled. She'd watched them scream and shout, laugh and play, seen Sylar holding onto Peter as her son cried his heart out in that man's arms, seen them furiously chasing each other through gaping, empty streets, and watched countless time passing with just each other for company. The worst part about it all was that Angela couldn't make sense of the visions. They were too conflicting to piece together, yet all she knew was that Peter would not take her advice to turn away from Sylar.

  
  


She could demand it, she could beg for it, but honestly she knew her words would have no effect on her pure-hearted son. Not that she could blame him after all she had done, why would he trust her? He really was better than them all, to have remained so untarnished while growing up in the family he had, and she was _proud_ of him for that. But this was just another poignant fact gone unsaid by Angela Petrelli.

  
  


*

  
  


“I can't just abandon him. He's counting on me.” Then, after a brief, pleasant pause for thought Peter added, “He _needs_ me.” The simple fact was – that was wonderfully true. It was the first time in a long time Peter had felt validated outside work (where a couple of minutes per patient meant the world to him), because to Gabriel he wouldn't just be the guy who saved his life and was never seen again... to Gabriel, he would be a _f_ _riend._

  
  


“So you haven't heard from Nathan then?”

  
  


Peter's smile fell and impatience stung at him. Barely five seconds had passed since his last words (and he hadn't even finished their conversation!), and already his mother was more pre-occupied by her favourite son over him. He blinked at her, unsure if she could really be so heartless at a time like this. But it seemed her question was 100% genuine.

  
  


*

  
  


“No. I just told you that.”

  
  


Angela did notice Peter's crestfallen face, but there were more important things to think of right now than his sensitivity and puppy dog eyes. Now that Sylar was back, there were so many arrangements that had to be made to uphold the family appearance. She needed to work a cover story for the press, for the office, for _Peter_... but only a temporary one, until she had time to rearrange this whole disaster back into manageable standards...

  
  


*

  
  


And now she was apparently off in another world altogether, while Peter was still sitting beside her, foolishly waiting for her to zone back in. He scratched his chin and shook his head, done with his mother for today (and hopefully another few weeks). He had what he came for, or at least enough to tide him over for the time being, and Gabriel was waiting for him at home. The guy had been clearly worried to be left alone in the apartment, but Peter knew he couldn't have taken him along. Angela would panic, Gabriel would panic, and Peter would never be able to get any answers close to the truth if Angela was lying to protect herself from who she still saw as a villain. But he didn't want to leave Gabriel by himself too long, and doubted the comic books he had presented him with before leaving would be enough to keep him happy and interested for much longer. He itched to get back and see him again, to make sure he was okay.

  
  


“I'm gonna get going.” He mumbled, although he doubted Angela was even listening. “Can you get me Sylar's address? Use your old contacts or whatever.” He said into her hair, kissing her forehead stiffly before pacing away a few steps. It hadn't exactly been the best meeting he'd ever had in his life, but it wasn't the worst either. At least he had garnered _one_ _v_ aluable thing to make his visit worthwhile. Still, he was annoyed by how the conversation had gone yet more grateful for the chance to escape.

  
  


“Peter?”

  
  


He stopped in his tracks, seriously considering just flying away then and there, but thought better of it. “Yeah?” He reluctantly walked back over, raising his eyebrows in a half-assed “I'm listening” expression, although it couldn't have been clearer that he couldn't be bothered hearing whatever it was.

  
  


Angela reached out her hand and he took it automatically. She squeezed his fingers, smiling up at him as if she had suddenly realised what a shit job she'd done at making him feel included so far, and this one last effort would compensate for the last few minutes. “You're a good boy, Peter. Take care of yourself.”

  
  


“I will.”

  
  


They smiled at each other, Angela's a little watery and Peter's a little forced, but for the first time they exchanged an almost natural moment. Perhaps if Peter had been paying more attention he would have noticed the underlying intensity of Angela's gesture and words. But he wasn't – he was already craving the sweet relief of soaring through the air at the speed of sound, and so wasn't aware that Angela was looking at him the way she might if she feared she would never set eyes on him this way again.

  
  


“Don't be a stranger, dear.” She said, sitting up straighter and immediately resuming the appearance of glamorous, well put together woman who hid a thousand thoughts behind the tiniest of smiles. You would never be able to tell she had thrown a tantrum barely a minute before.

  
  


“I won't.”

  
  


“I'll get you Sylar's address.” She said grudgingly, and Peter tightened his grip on her hand in thanks. Such a tiny helpful act felt like so much more because he'd been starved for it. Regardless, at least she was doing _something_ for him. At last, it felt like she was actually trying to be thoughtful. But then she went and shattered the delicate web of understanding that had barely had time to exist. “And let me know the _second_ you hear from Nathan, alright?”

  
  


Peter scoffed and pulled away again, this time to leave properly. “Goodbye Ma.” He muttered over his shoulder, feeling silly for actually thinking she might have been paying more attention to the son who was standing in front of her, y'know, _actually asking for her help?!_ He kicked off from the ground a little harsher than usual, and zipped up into the sky.

  
  


*

  
  


Angela waved after him, even though he wasn't looking. She kept her gaze skyward long after the whistle of air and supersonic boom had faded. Only then did she allow precisely three tears to fall over what she had lost once more, before wiping them away and pulling herself together.

  
  


In this bizarre, unnatural world, who says _the end_ is really, _t_ _ruly_ _t_ he end...? The war wasn't over quite yet, and Angela had some thinking to do before making any decisions. She knew what she _wanted_ to do: drag Parkman over here and get him to top up his end of the deal. But that wasn't without great risk on multiple levels. What about what she _should_ do...? Maybe it was better to just leave things as they were instead of fighting the inevitable? Maybe it had been supposed to work out this way all along?

  
  


And for what could have possibly been the first time ever, Angela questioned her preferred choice of action with the sake of her youngest child in mind. She would do nothing. She wouldn't interfere. But things are never that easy, and she knew that Peter's time of blissful ignorance was limited. One way or another, his world would collapse around him, as it always ends in heartbreak.

  
  


*

  
  


Only when the clouds were streaming along behind him and the Petrelli mansion was long gone did Peter begin to feel better. It was always easier for him to think up here, as if the wind literally blew his cares away or cleansed his mind.

  
  


So from now on: Gabriel would be Gabriel – Sylar was gone for good. That was amazing, almost too good to be true! A huge weight had been lifted, and despite his encounter back at the mansion, Peter felt pleasant and free. Maybe even happy? Awful things happen sometimes, but wonderful things do too. And that's what this was: a wonderful new beginning for a broken man, a chance to do things better this time around.

  
  


Suddenly Peter remembered that he needed to buy some groceries before heading back home, but he didn't want to land just yet. He hadn't flown in ages, and might as well make the most of it, he reasoned. Gabriel would be fine for a short while longer, right? So he changed his course in the sky, looking forward to a spontaneous trip. He hadn't visited Boston in a while...

 

 


	5. Bleeding Hearts and Bleeding Tongues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today is the first day of the rest of Gabriel's life, and Peter takes the time to start it off in a rather sweet way....

Two hours and twelve minutes. That was exactly how long Peter had been gone. Gabriel tried not to notice every second dragging, but somehow they called out to him. Like they had with Dr Gibson in Baltimore. The echoing ticks had began hurting Gabriel's head like a needle being physically pricked into his forehead, and so he had hunted down the source of the sound with the intent to silence it somehow.

  
  


But the old analogue watch that he extracted from the back of a kitchen drawer after a hefty hunt was too nice to turn off or to destroy now that he was holding it. The glass was cracked but the hands were in good condition, and it seemed a shame to think the piece had been abandoned like that for such a small amount of damage.

  
  


So Gabriel had allowed the watch to accompany him back to the couch and Peter's comic books (he had tried, honestly, to get into them. But the brash pictures and crazy stories weren't at all as entertaining as Peter had enthused, and so they now lay in a neatly stacked pile on the arm of the couch). He had set the watch down carefully atop the pile of comics, and counted the seconds passing ever since. See this, he mused, was somehow much more interesting than reading about a bunch of Wonders or whatever. Besides, when his focus was channelled like this, it was a lot easier to pretend that the rest of the outside, scary world couldn't get him. But occasionally, noisy neighbours would startle him with their angry voices, and a nearby jingling, chiming noise had started bleeping more than once, and each time Gabriel had nearly jumped out of his skin.

  
  


But he ignored it all. He waited for Peter. He watched the minutes pass. Two hours and fourteen minutes now. Fifteen. Sixteen. Sevent-

  
  


Then the sound of a key scraping in the lock made his entire being jolt to life.

  
  


*

  
  


The only thing Peter could liken it to was coming home to a new puppy. By the time he had unlocked the door and pushed his way inside, laden with five bulging grocery bags, Gabriel was already eagerly awaiting him right inside the doorway. So close that Peter almost walked straight into him. He jumped at the unexpected proximity, then caught himself and sent a shy smile Gabriel's way as he set down the bags on the kitchen counter. “Hey. How'd you do all by yourself?”

  
  


The man just shrugged, playing it cool, but he was practically quivering with excitement at seeing his companion again. It was a little weird, if Peter was honest. Had he gone a bit crazy being left alone for so long? Maybe he shouldn't have taken the extra trip to Boston, and returned sooner? That also would have saved him the uncomfortable flight home trying to balance five bags while zooming across the sky at full speed, which he really wished he'd thought out better before his spontaneous detour.

  
  


“Fine.” Gabriel said quietly, his round eyes shining brightly as he stared so intently at Peter. It was as if he had expected never to see him again, and now couldn't tear his grateful gaze away.

  
  


“Okay... good. Good.” Peter nodded, subtly flattening his windswept hair and wondering if he maybe had something on his face that was making the other man stare so much. Of course Gabriel would be anticipating that Peter had some news to tell him, but it was still a little overbearing. He cleared his throat and turned to start emptying the bags. It was a strange feeling, since it had been so long since he'd had any reason or motivation to do this. “So what'd you do while I was gone?”

  
  


“Waited for you.” Gabriel said softly, very proud of the fact.

  
  


“Oh yeah?” Peter stopped himself from adding ' _is that all?_ ' because he suspected the answer would be 'yes', and then it would be difficult to backtrack from digging himself a hole. The poor guy had clearly been bored to death - maybe the comic books hadn't been the best idea, but there was nothing else here he could have offered to entertain someone for a considerable amount of time.

  
  


*

  
  


It startled Gabriel, in the best of ways, to feel such emotion resurface at the mere sight of Peter. It had been awful to see him leave the apartment earlier, but that pain was almost worth it to be rewarded by this wave of pleasure and happiness upon his return. For a while there, when sitting by himself and pondering the meaning of his existence, he had worried that he might forget Peter if he didn't come back soon. It felt silly to think that now, but he had been terrified of losing touch with the only thing that actually made sense in his confined life. But that hadn't been the case at all. Now he was only _more_ certain than ever that Pete was special – everything about him was familiar, and not from an old life, but from _Gabriel's_ own memory. Which was so wonderful that he didn't even know how to express it in words, so he tried his best to show this gratitude in another way.

  
  


“Here, let me help you.” He offered, digging into one of the bags that Peter hadn't yet reached. He saw and tingled at the surprised, then happy look his companion sent his way, and set to work enthusiastically stacking the shelves with everything he procured from the bag (because this was what Peter was doing).

  
  


*

 

“Did you talk to your mother?” Gabriel asked, like this was light conversation and not about a possibly monumental part of his future.

  
  


“Yeah. I did. Uhhh...” Peter groaned, crumpling the first empty bag into a ball before throwing it into the garbage, hard. “She didn't tell me what actually... happened to you. I'm sorry. I tried, but she sure is one stubborn...” He didn't finish the sentence.

  
  


“There's no need to apologise, Peter. Thank you for trying.” Having also reached the bottom of his bag, Gabriel looked lost for a moment before hastily imitating Peter's routine of crushing the paper into a ball and throwing it towards the garbage. It missed, bounced off the wall and rolled onto the floor. He carried swiftly on. “What else did she say? Did you have a nice visit?”

  
  


At that, Peter actually laughed. “Right! I wish.” He crossed to the fridge with a carton of milk and some yoghurt. The only thing inside was the mustard – sitting blatantly amongst the bare shelves, an unpleasant token of his recent, empty, isolated life. Peter scooped it from its perch, threw it lazily after the crumpled bags and began filling the fridge properly at last. A fresh start had to begin somewhere, after all. “She didn't tell me much. Nothing useful, I'm afraid.”

  
  


He had decided on the journey back not to tell Gabriel that his evil alter-ego was gone for good. At least not yet. The guy didn't even know about it after all, and it could cause more problems than resolutions. And the best part about it was that it _didn't even matter anymore_. Sylar was gone. Neither Gabriel, or Peter, had to worry about him again.

 

 

*

  
  


“But she _is_ gonna get me your address, though. Which is good, right?”

  
  


Gabriel's thriving mood was punctured then, deflating slowly around his shoulders. “Oh. Yeah. Good.” He buried himself in cereal boxes and pasta, neatly arranging them on the shelf so that Peter couldn't see his face. He'd almost forgotten about that – his own apartment. The prospect of another torture like those two hours and seventeen minutes, but for hours and hours or even _days_ on end was not one to look forward to. Gabriel didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay here with Peter Petrelli in their own little safe bubble forever.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter's stomach dropped a few inches at Gabriel's rather lacklustre response. Of course he knew that the guy liked company, but he hadn't quite expected the sudden shift in his demeanour, from bright and happy to one of dread and gloom. What, had he imagined that they'd just live together from now on? For how long? That was ridiculous! Yet Peter had to admit to himself that the idea wasn't the incomprehensible mess that he once would have thought it would be. But, regardless, it just wasn't feasible: Peter had other responsibilities – a job that needed his time and attention – and Gabriel had... well... Gabriel needed to start building a life again. And he couldn't very well do that while sleeping on Peter's too small couch, could he?

  
  


“But you can stay here for a few more days if you want? Until you feel more comfortable with living by yourself.” He blurted, in complete contrast to his internal excuses telling him not to. He couldn't help it. There was no way Peter bleeding-heart Petrelli could ever cast Gabriel away before he was ready.

  
  


A small, sharp intake of breath came from Gabriel's direction. Then he coughed to cover it. Peter smiled to himself, amused by this, and took the opportunity to really look at the guy while his attention was elsewhere (a rare occurrence).

  
  


He was still wearing one of Peter's shirts and the too short trousers (now with odd socks added to the ensemble), and his long, dark hair was pushed back off his face. Yet instead of the sleek, severe style that he usually sported, he had parted his hair in the middle and tucked it modestly behind his ears. The whole get up was candidly, dare he even think it... cute. The warmth of Peter's smile progressed to his eyes, and he really let the knowledge sink in, now that he was so close to this other person: with Sylar removed from the equation, there was no reason at all to be wary of Gabriel or to close off from him. Not anymore. Peter regretted having done so up until this point, but now that was all about to change.

  
  


Small grunts of effort snapped him out of his blatant ogling, and brought his attention to Gabriel's struggle. He snorted out a laugh, cutting it off quickly and trying not to cringe. “Uh... no. No, it doesn't go in there. That's for the bathroom.” He explained, awkwardly relieving Gabriel of the multi pack of toilet paper that he was trying to stuff into the cupboard along with the canned goods.

  
  


“Oh? ...Oh!” Recognition finally clicked inside that genius mind, and Gabriel's cheeks flushed deeply. “I- I thought...” He waved weakly at the paper towels that Peter had already set out, before hurriedly disappearing into the remainder of the bag. Unable not to laugh, Peter chucked the toilet paper carelessly into the bathroom, trying not to dwell on how weird it was that he'd just bought _that_ particular utility for himself to share with the man who used to be his arch nemesis.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter returned to Gabriel's side just as he stored the final items of the bag (tomato soup – he had correctly identified it as food before embarrassing himself again). Trying to look casual, he rolled up the now empty bag and threw it, the same as before, and this time it landed neatly in the bin. That was the little spike of confidence he needed. “So. What do you want to do today?”

  
  


“Aha...!” Peter chimed, rustling the remaining bag. Gabriel blinked at him, unsure what that meant, and so Peter carried it over to the table with a fun, cheeky glint in his eye. Intrigued, Gabriel followed him, getting excited too just by association. “I thought that, seeing as this is the start of the rest of your life and all, you needed to find out what you _like_...” Biting his lip, and with a playful twitch of eyebrows, Peter tipped the bag upside down... and a stream of multi-coloured, mismatched paper and crinkling wrappers flowed out and over the table in one huge, jumbled mess.

  
  


“...Candy.” Gabriel said, eyes scanning over the stuff. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't that.

  
  


“Y-yeah. Wait. You know what that is?” Peter said, looking a little put out if Gabriel wasn't mistaken. “Oh. Well I guess it's still a nice surprise anyway – I mean, who doesn't like candy?” Peter chuckled, pushing his fringe out of his eyes and beaming at Gabriel with a little humility. It was the first full-blown, open-lipped smile that Gabriel had witnessed, and his breath hitched in his throat. It was amazing how so much warmth could be shared by such a simple gesture, and Gabriel was once again fascinated by the horizontal slant of Peter's lower lip. It was broken. He was beautiful.

  
  


“Yeah, I - I know what candy is.” He mumbled clumsily, trying not to show how weak his knees had suddenly become. “But I don't... I can't... remember. The taste.” Somehow he made his way to a chair and sat, sparing his legs from giving way under him. The table was strewn with the stuff, any and all flavours, types, brands. A lot of thought must have gone into selecting such a diverse range. Gabriel didn't begrudge the two hours and seventeen minutes as much anymore. “You did all this for me?”

  
  


*

  
  


“Well, yeah.” Peter smiled again in an attempt to encourage Gabriel to copy him. But the man looked crestfallen, as if gathering a bunch of sugary sweetness was the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for him. Which, of course, it was. Peter made a silent vow to himself then and there to not only take care of this man, but to ensure he had the best chance at having a marvellous life from now on. And what better way to start than by getting high off sugar infused confectionery? God knows they sorely needed a innocent reprieve from all the recent chaos dragging them down.

  
  


So, pulling out the opposite chair, Peter joined his companion at the table. He watched Gabriel's face eagerly, feeling his own nerves flutter. He really hoped his good deed played out the way he had intended. For fuck's sake – it was only candy! Yet between Gabriel's amazement and Peter's pride and excitement, you'd think that something hugely life-changing was about to go down. “Try some. Whatcha gonna go for first?”

  
  


“Uh...” It soon became apparent that when the man made a choice... he _really_ made a choice. Not just whichever one was closest, or whichever one had the nicest packet – oh no. Gabriel took his time to absorb all his options and wheedle them out until he finally made an informed decision.

  
  


“Ooh, Rocky Road, good choice.” Peter enthused, impatient and eager to witness the unforgettable moment he was sure was coming.

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel opened the packet slowly, eyes dancing between the chocolate and Peter. “Do you have to watch me so closely?” He asked, one corner of his mouth catching in a little hook up. “It makes me feel like I'm doing it wrong.”

  
  


Peter slapped his palms to the table. “Are you kidding me? There's no wrong way to eat a Rocky Road! Just go for it, man!”

  
  


This new fervour was contagious, and Gabriel found himself echoing that bright smile. It was a treat to see Peter so invigorated – this was a first, and he liked it immensely. Even if the mother had been a dead end, today's trip had certainly made a difference to his companion. He seemed younger somehow, unbridled from some of the baggage he had been previously dragging along. In this moment he was a lot more reminiscent of the sweet, unsullied Peter from the hazy visions that Gabriel had gathered of him in his mind. He had complied the disjointed clips to create a sort of wonky, collaged representation of past Peter, and the way he was in this second was as close to that version of him as Gabriel had ever seen with his own two eyes. And it was wonderful.

  
  


Gabriel didn't know what had happened to make the change apparent, and he didn't much care either. He was just glad it had happened. Every smile or chuckle from those asymmetrical lips made him feel important, and he flourished off the inkling that _he_ had somehow made Peter this happy, and he wanted to keep things this way...

  
  


So Gabriel took his first ever bite of the glorious concoction known to man as chocolate.

  
  


*

  
  


The look of undiluted glee on his face was priceless – worth every penny Peter had splurged on that day's shopping and more! It was amazing to witness such a moment, and even more wondrous that as little a thing as a simple pleasure could make that much of a difference to someone. Peter laughed at Gabriel's widened eyes and his bulging cheeks, and laughed even more when _Gabriel_ _t_ ried to join in and subsequently almost spat his mouthful down himself.

  
  


It didn't take long until the floor was littered with discarded wrappers and dropped candy, and the men enthusiastically worked in around the outside of the delightful treats together. The taste test soon turned into a game of who could withstand the sour or bitter pieces best, and Peter couldn't remember the last time he had had as much innocent, simple, delirious fun.

  
  


This wasn't about anyone else. Nobody could get hurt by the ripples of this moment. And Peter had no need to worry about anyone or anything else except if his tongue was bleeding after tolerating one too many Toxic Wastes. Later he would maybe blame all the sugar, but really it was just the honest connection winding and weaving between the pair that sent hours blurring past in a whirlwind of hysterical giggles, pulling hilarious faces in response to the candy and telling entertaining stories (Peter did the telling while Gabriel gladly absorbed every word).

  
  


Somewhere along the way, Peter found the time to actually feel genuine sympathy for Sylar. The guy wouldn't have started off evil, surely? Nobody did. And somehow he couldn't imagine big, bad Sylar enjoying himself like this ever in his life, just doing nothing but chatting and having a good time. It was a shame, and living a miserable, empty life could even turn the best of people miserable and empty to match it, but at least it wasn't too late.

 

Well, yes, technically it was too late for _Sylar_... but not for Gabriel. And not for Peter, either.

  
  


*

  
  


It was after 11pm (both men were slumped at the table, too full and now feeling sick) when a chilling, jingling chime sounded from somewhere near Peter. The sound made Gabriel's groggy mind clear instantly, and he bolted up straighter in his chair. “What _was_ that?!” He whispered, eyes darting around the apartment, suddenly nervous. It sounded very similar to the noise that had scared him multiple times during his lonely afternoon.

  
  


“Woah – relax. It's just a text.” Peter laughed, wiggling a device in the air. Ohhh, a text! Gabriel was half sure he knew what that was (at least, he almost recognised a phone now that he had laid eyes on one). “Probably my brother Nathan, he's been avoiding my calls recently...” Peter busied himself reading the message, and thereby missed the twitch and full-body tremor than ran through Gabriel.

  
  


_Nathan... brother..._ 'my brother Nathan'... Gabriel replayed those words over and over, feeling like he might finally, possibly, maybe have had his teeth sunk into something important that he could finally, metaphorically, chew on. ' _Nathan_ ' felt... _nice._ Felt... even... _familiar...?_ Then a tight kick of something inside him began to stir. Like a tickle, or a muscle cramp that took him a moment to notice before it began to ache and burn away at him. He wasn't sure what it was – could it be a side effect of eating so much candy? - or what it meant, but whatever it was was _intense_. He gripped the edge of the table, staring unseeing at the mess laid out upon it, and instead could do nothing but watch as more bouts of flashbacks than he had ever experienced at once danced in front of his vision in one disorientating, continuous stream.

  
  


Almost like when his hand had healed at breakfast, it felt like tiny parts of the many gaping voids inside him were being slowly stitched together. Bridges were being built across chasms, holes were being re-plastered in the walls. But it was all happening so fast and he couldn't make sense of any of it: unlike the other times, he couldn't pinpoint faces or locations or feelings... he just felt more... whole. While at the same time remaining infuriatingly, decidedly vacant as always.

  
  


Unbeknownst to both men, a ripple rolled over the amnesiac's face... distorting his features slightly, lengthening and thinning his nose while elongating his lips, turning him into a hint of another face...

  
  


Then all at once it stopped, reverting him back to his natural countenance. The memories and suffocating sensation receded, leaving Gabriel feeling light, spent, struggling for breath and shaking all over. Oblivious to the brief transformation, he scratched at his cheek to rid himself of the after effects of the bothersome tingle, mind whirring... What did Peter's brother have to do with this – Gabriel's memory problem? Despite the _feeling_ that something wasn't right, there was no proof or even reason to suggest such a thing. All that 'Nathan' was to Gabriel was a name. He didn't know the guy, he didn't remember him or anything about him at all. Yet somehow... he felt connected to him in some inexplicable way...

  
  


*

  
  


“Oh, it's not Nathan, it's... uh...” But then Peter's voice trailed off. It was strange how a short stream of words and numbers could ram such an impact into his gut. He blinked at his phone screen, regret filling him up like water in a basin. Fuck. It was Angela. With Sylar's address.

  
  


He hadn't expected her to get back to him so soon. He wasn't prepared for this. And he didn't want Gabriel to go, especially after all the fun and progress they'd shared that day. What would he do with all the new groceries by himself? There was no way one person could make his way through all the food before it went off (especially not one as self-neglectful as Peter Petrelli). He could always give it all to Gabriel as many house warming gifts... he supposed.

  
  


But with him gone, the apartment would be so cold and heartless again. It wasn't until this living arrangement had been shoved upon Peter that he even noticed what a pathetic attempt he'd been having at a “life” - even up until yesterday. Noah Bennet was right – it wasn't healthy to shut oneself off from the world and other people the way he had. And the thought of going back to that way of life tomorrow was extremely off-putting. Besides, now faced with the prospect of losing Gabriel's presence, he had suddenly been winded by how much he would miss him.

  
  


So for once taking a dishonest path in life (and feeling awful and daring for doing so), Peter stowed his phone back into his pocket. “It's nothing important.” He looked back up at Gabriel, guilt bubbling inside at his small act of deceit, just in time to catch the man snapping out of a trance-like state. Peter's eyebrows lifted in the centre. “You okay?”

  
  


*

  
  


“Wh...? Yeah... Yeah. I'm fine.” Gabriel shook himself slightly, losing his fragile grip on that most perplexing train of thought. How strange... he had never experienced anything like _t_ _hat_ before. But whatever it had been was gone now, just another ill-fitting piece in the multifaceted jigsaw puzzle that was Gabriel's determinedly hand-crafted identity. His nerve endings were still buzzing like the aftershocks of his electrical power, and 'fine' wasn't exactly an honest portrayal of his state of being.

  
  


But he smiled quickly at Peter to ease the man's wonderfully concerned look. Something, somewhere, told him not to divulge what had just happened. It was a new sensation having instincts to go on, but he chose to stick by them.

  
  


*

  
  


“Are you sure? You look a bit ill.” Peter noted aloud, observing Gabriel's taut knuckles on the tabletop, the slight pallor to his complexion and the glistening of sweat that was beading across his upper lip. Gabriel nodded, shrinking under the nurse's inspection the way a guilty patient always did when they were lying, causing Peter to frown slightly. It was at times like this when Matt's ability started looking very enticing at work, and the same could be said for now. But even if he still had access to telepathy, he wouldn't invade upon Gabriel's mind. The guy had already suffered enough meddling trauma to last him his very long, immortal lifetime.

  
  


“Maybe it was all the candy. We should've quit while we were ahead.” He teased, resisting the urge to check the other man's temperature, and trusting that he would choose to share what was wrong if the problem persisted or worsened.

  
  


*

  
  


For the first time, Gabriel made the conscious decision to keep an important secret from Peter Petrelli (who in turn, unknown by Gabriel, was sitting on his own undisclosed information). After a few seconds Gabriel's pulse returned to a more regular pace, and he felt almost normal again. Whatever had just happened required some serious contemplation, but for now he was more than happy to push it all away until later. “Yes. Perhaps we should have.” He concurred, grateful that Peter wasn't going to push him further.

  
  


*

  
  


“But where's the fun in that, huh?” Peter chuckled, scooping up a handful of more Toxic Wastes and chucking them at Gabriel, who flinched and wrinkled his nose in response. He laughed at Gabriel's disgusted expression, pretty sure that he would _really_ be ill if he had any more candy, and the two quickly ignored their individual queries and fell back into relaxed, easy conversation.

  
  


Peter wouldn't lie for long, he told himself. He would tell Gabriel about his address soon, he definitely would. Just... not tonight. Tonight would be spent doing nothing more than enjoying the pleasure of each other's company.

 

And _then_ he would tell him. Later.

 

 


	6. Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something new and foreign unlocks inside of Gabriel. Something wonderful. Yet another small piece of his humanity returning...

'Later', it turned out, came around after almost two weeks had passed.

  
  


The day after Peter's rather disappointing meeting with his mother, he had been called into work. Sadly, despite their pleasant, carefree evening (and the decidedly less pleasant stomach ache that had resulted from it), Peter and Gabriel knew they couldn't avoid reality forever. For the first few days Peter had been anxious and unable to concentrate at work, too busy worrying about his new friend and hoping he was taking care of himself back at the apartment.

  
  


So, to slightly compensate for his perceived neglect of the poor guy, he began stopping by the library on his commute home at night so he could present Gabriel with dozens of books at a time, all of different genres for him to pick through at his own leisure. These included atlases, dictionaries, magazines and novels... basically a little bit of everything that, he hoped, would help Gabriel better understand and integrate into society.

  
  


It went a little way to help, but Peter struggled every day with his split attention. He didn't think he'd ever been torn in two directions this way at once: as a hospice nurse, he had put 100% into his care. When his abilities had awoken, he had quit his job to put 100% into saving the world. After starting work again, he had taken a considerable step back from his hero duties, outside of being a paramedic. But this time he couldn't drop the job, or drop Gabriel. This time he had to adapt to giving 100% in two individual outlets simultaneously. It was exhausting, it was draining, and Peter was running on as little sleep as he'd ever had.

  
  


But, overall, it was worth it.

  
  


*

  
  


It hadn't been as bad as last time, being alone again. In fact, Gabriel found that he actually enjoyed the time to himself during the days when Peter was out saving lives. Not due to lack of company, but because he could use those hours to learn about the world through all the fascinating pages Peter had gifted him with. It was easy to get lost in the words, and soon Gabriel set himself a personal challenge to have at least one accomplishment to tell Peter about when he came home: be this either that he had successfully memorised the different districts of New York City, the main cities in the country, or the names of what seemed like dozens of identical celebrity sisters, all frustratedly starting with the letter “K”. Personally, Gabriel favoured the novels over reading about Who's Hot and Who's Not in the latest fashion trends, but an insight into other people's lives was useful all the same. Still, he preferred his own humble existence to the flashy mansions and sports cars plastered across the glossy pages.

  
  


And he never once left the safety of Peter's apartment.

  
  


But over time he had began to feel braver, or at least brave enough to get familiar with the workings of the microwave and, more importantly, his own abilities. He only tested little snatches of powers here and there: a soft bout of telekinesis when he was sitting comfortably on the couch and fancied a cookie from the cupboard, or a tiny crackle of electricity to light his way to the toilet during the night when the lights were out.

  
  


Slowly, they became a natural part of his existence. So, as it happened, did fixing things. It didn't take Gabriel long to discover he had a talent for seeing the way things worked, how the parts _should_ go... After a few days tinkering with the insides of the analogue watch with the cracked glass (in order just to watch the gears wind and whir), Peter had bought him his very own tool set which, in turn, had led to an expedition of the entire apartment in which Gabriel had righted all the little wrongs around the place – including the stiff front door.

  
  


It was an agreeable day-to-day routine, but he always looked forward to the best hours of the day: when his room mate came home.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter hadn't forgotten his internal promise to disclose Sylar's address. But the time just blurred past so quickly that he could barely believe it had been twelve days since he had answered Dr Gibson's message and been thrown into the deep end of this new stage of his life. That meant it was twelve days since Gabriel had sprung into existence, and he still hadn't even experienced life in the outside world yet.

  
  


So the empathetic man came to the regretful decision that it was selfish of him to keep Gabriel cooped up at his apartment, even though he knew the guy was perfectly happy to stay there indefinitely. Life is for living, and what Gabriel was doing wasn't really 'living'. He was hiding. He needed his own space (not to mention a real bed) and it was wrong of Peter to let this continue just because he loved coming home to someone who was always happy to see him. He had never had that before – not as a child growing up in an affectionate family environment, not as an adult coming home to a loving girlfriend, not ever. So little lost puppy Gabriel pulled at Peter's heartstrings every time he opened the now fixed front door to find him standing merely inches inside, beaming from ear to ear.

  
  


But he had promised. And it wasn't fair.

  
  


So, on the thirteenth day of their newfound companionship, Peter led a silently reluctant Gabriel across the city to his old – but at the same time new – home. It was silly to be nervous, but Peter couldn't shake the knowledge that these rooms had once also been home to a serial-killer who he had accidentally helped dispose of. He wondered if Sylar would be angry to know a new tenant would live in his apartment, sleep in his bed and read his many (and there were _many_ ) books, or if the guy might be alright to know that his possessions would make someone else happy. He hoped it was the latter.

  
  


*

  
  


It wasn't so bad. The apartment was nicer than Peter's: warm and slightly musky, fully furnished with a reoccurring theme of dark mahogany, and every wall was stacked solid with more books than Gabriel had hours to read them. He hadn't even noticed how uncomfortable a couch really was to sleep on until he had the luxury of a bed of his own. Maybe if he'd known what he was missing he would have taken Peter up on his offer of alternating nights between the bed and couch at his place.

  
  


Practically the whole apartment was stocked perfectly for Gabriel's preferences. He had even been pleasantly surprised to find a workbench waiting for him, neatly laid out with clocks in need of attention, along with actual watchmaking tools better than the ones Peter had bought him (although he kept those anyway, for their sentimental value).

  
  


Thankfully, since the weird, intense memory attack that had overcome him at the mention of Peter's brother, nothing of the sort had happened again. The frequent mentioning of the word “Nathan” now did nothing more than cast up little seedlings of guilt, wonder and curiosity at himself and the resurfacing of those feelings. He didn't tell Peter any of this. Occasionally he had short spells of the original types of flashes here and there, but steadily they too receded until it was rare to even have one a day. Slowly, Gabriel became his own person – if still a little vacant in spots and naively innocent to the ways of the world.

  
  


It wasn't exactly torture to stay here in this safe haven of knowledge and comfort, cooped up with his precious clocks and ignoring the phone every time it rang until he eventually hid it at the back of the bathroom cupboard to muffle the sound. The time between Peter's regular visits didn't drag as much now that he had a proper hobby to invest his time and energy in. But, of course, it still dragged a little.

  
  


*

  
  


Although having Gabriel live by himself was an improvement in independence, it hadn't exactly had the full effect that Peter had intended. It was better for the man to live by his own rules and schedules here than to be sitting at Peter's home like a pet awaiting attention and company every night, he told himself, yet the move had done nothing much to improve Gabriel's confidence. Peter tried to encourage him to go outside every once in a while, to explore and be part of life outside of these walls, but every suggestion was hastily wriggled out of and he didn't want to push Gabriel too hard into anything he wasn't willing to do.

  
  


So instead of going out for dinner every time Peter visited, like he offered – they ordered take-out (from a different place each time: Peter insisted that if Gabriel wasn't going to experience any real world adventures, he would at least taste flavours from all over the globe). And instead of visiting a bar or the movies, or even the park – they stayed inside, huddled up on Gabriel's couch with a pile of DVDs to work their way through.

  
  


Peter looked out some of his favourites along with new films that he thought his friend might like. He was happy to sit through hours of previously watched footage, but more happy to watch _Gabriel_ watching them – a fascinating spectacle indeed.

  
  


*

  
  


Understandably, Gabriel was still wary of the whole outside world and the countless strangers in it, and so Peter's visits were the only socialization he had. And he loved those times immensely. He wouldn't trade the bi-nightly movie marathons for anything else he owned! Although the pair did nothing more than sit side by side and exchange opinions on the characters, predict the story and poke holes in the movie's logic, he treasured the intimacy of these hours. Even if the movies weren't always good, Gabriel benefited from each and every one: they were thought-provoking, entertaining and, above all... educational.

  
  


Gabriel knew what kissing was. Of course he knew! He had read about dozens of kisses in books by now, and watched dozens more on tv. But it wasn't until one night in his third week of living here that he came across his first sex scene. It hadn't even occurred to him until then that Peter might have been censoring the choices in films he brought over, but the particular scene currently flashing on the screen before him was more _graphic_ than anything else Gabriel had ever seen.

  
  


The movie couple were going at each other rather vehemently, and suddenly Gabriel had to fight to ensure his facial expression wasn't conveying the mixture of utter shock, guilt and enjoyment that had started prickling along his skin. It was a weird sensation. New. Uncomfortable. But at the same time... quite nice. The scene wasn't particularly explicit, and Gabriel was left to imagine what exactly goes where, but he understood enough of it for the awkward squirming inside him to only increase with the speed of the couple's breathing and thrusting. He shifted a little in his seat to try and shake off the feeling, attempting to look casual and only mildly interested in the whole thing.

  
  


Just then, Peter coughed. It could have been innocent, or he could have very well been hiding a tiny laugh. But Gabriel didn't really spare much thought to it: he had just become suddenly _very_ aware of the other man beside him, and how close their thighs were to touching. But somehow, inexplicably, Peter didn't seem bothered by the scene at all. He just continued to watch, unphased by it all, and tapped his fingers against the arm of the couch in the same slightly annoying way he always did. His lack of reaction was maddening, and Gabriel tried to match it. At least on the outside.

  
  


Somehow he managed to keep his cool for the rest of the film, saying nothing to express this new, confusing feeling that was still itching away at him. It began to bother him, as Peter had a busy work week ahead and this was the last time they'd see each other for a while, and he didn't want to be distracted through what little time they had together. But the itch persisted until long after Peter had left, and Gabriel had no idea what to do. So he just ignored it, hoped it would go away, and stubbornly forced himself to sleep it off.

  
  


But that night he dreamt of Peter and everything shifted. Something was different now. Something new and foreign had unlocked inside of the man, something natural and wonderful, just another small piece of his humanity returning.

  
  


He dreamt of Peter four nights in a row, until he was next lucky enough to lay eyes on that face for real.

  
  


*

  
  


Knocking was still a strange new custom and Peter wasn't quite used to it after having lived with Gabriel, even if they'd lived apart longer than they had together. Currently, he waited in the hallway, shivering slightly in his wet clothes. But the door didn't open. Instead, he could hear tentative, shuffling footsteps just inside the apartment, then quiet pads on the back of the door as the resident pressed hands and an ear against it. It shouldn't be funny, it was a shame, really, but Peter found that he had to fight back a smile. “It's only me.”

  
  


At once the lock was turned and the chain pulled back, and Gabriel's surprised face appeared at a crack in the door. “Peter? What're you doing here? Aren't you working tonight?” He stepped back, holding the door open wide and inviting his guest inside.

  
  


“Yeah, I am, and I'm already late.” Peter walked into the apartment, grateful for the encompassing cosiness that somehow always seemed to be here. “Sorry to barge in like this, but I wondered if I could borrow some clothes? I thought I could miss the rain, but...” Peter opened his arms to pointlessly highlight his soaked condition. “And I was closer to your apartment than mine.” He wiped his wet hair back off his forehead, then rubbed his hands together to generate some feeling in his numb fingers.

  
  


While, yes, he had foolishly thought that he could outrun rain, and he _did_ need dry clothes to get to and from work in, his main reason for visiting was that he hoped he could borrow Gabriel's flight ability. For the past few weeks he'd been operating with lie-detection (a particularly handy one to have at work that gave him the same advantage as Matt's but without the pesky mind-control part), but now he was already so late for his night shift and also fancied a change in power, and flight could help with both of those problems at once. But he didn't want Gabriel to feel like a private power bank, or that he was only useful for his abilities, so refrained from asking straight out.

  
  


“Of course.” Gabriel mumbled, tightly securing the locks on the door before shuffling off in the direction of his bed without a backwards glance at Peter. That was odd. The paramedic suddenly wondered if it was inappropriate of him to have turned up like this, unannounced. Barely a few days went by nowadays without paying a visit to his old room mate, but they were always precisely scheduled around Peter's demanding work timetable. Maybe Gabriel wasn't a fan of spontaneous drop-ins like this? He hoped he wasn't an unwanted inconvenience.

  
  


*

  
  


Something strange was happening to Gabriel. He knew he was walking. At least, his physical being moved through the apartment in the direction he wanted, but he couldn't feel his legs. In fact, he couldn't feel his fingers either, and all he was aware of was his thundering heartbeat and being hot all over. It wasn't that he was annoyed to see Peter – anything but! He hadn't expected to see him until their next arranged visit tomorrow night, and this was a great surprise! He hadn't been over for five days now, their longest separation yet, and maybe it was going so long without human contact that had done it, or maybe it was actually seeing him in person after all the dreams... but suddenly Gabriel couldn't breathe just being near Peter.

  
  


Opening that door to see the dripping wet vision of a man, friendly and smiling and shining with raindrops illuminated by the hall light... the memory was smothering him. He couldn't blink the image away, and couldn't swallow past a lump in his throat. It was just Peter Petrelli: exactly the same as he had been since he had rescued Gabriel from Baltimore, a wonderfully familiar friend, a sole companion. But for some reason, laying eyes on him waiting on the doorstep was different than anything else Gabriel had ever felt.

  
  


*

  
  


Still shivering, Peter hovered near the door, unwilling to leave a trail of puddles around the room. Instead he let his eyes roam around the now familiar apartment while he waited. It looked like the other man had fixed up more clocks since his last visit, and there was an old looking pocket-watch open and half empty under the magnifying glass on the workbench. Gabriel must have been working on it before Peter had interrupted him, and he wondered if maybe that's why he seemed a little 'off'.

  
  


“Here. I tried to choose something like you normally wear.” Gabriel's voice announced his approach, and Peter gratefully took the offered clothes (a plain t-shirt, jeans and a dark, waterproof jacket). At least Gabriel seemed to be a little bit more like normal, and sank into the chair at the workbench with a little smile shot Peter's way. Then he bent to further examine the pocket-watch. “You can change in the bathroom if you want? I have clean towels in there.” He said a little proudly.

  
  


“Oh man! You finally went to the laundry room? When did that happen?” Peter called, disappearing into the pristine, simplistic bathroom. Sure enough, a stack of freshly laundered towels were set out neatly on the rail, and he felt a generous swell of pride well up at the sight.

  
  


“Yesterday.”

  
  


“And you actually survived...?!”

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel's lips curled up in a little smile directed at the tabletop. “Barely...” He was now aware that his previous unjustified fear of the laundry room might have been blown a little out of proportion. But he still didn't plan on going back anytime soon.

  
  


A hearty laugh sounded from his bathroom in response, and Gabriel felt a little better now that he was sitting down. He assumed it must just have been the shock of Peter's sudden arrival making him feel strange before. Or seeing him wet for the first time – it would be a shocking encounter for any person to see their friend come in from the rain all sparkling and gorgeous and dripping, right? It must be a normal reaction. Besides, he was fine now. At least, feeling had returned to his limbs, even if he was painfully aware of his pulse pounding in every fingertip for some reason.

  
  


He forced himself to focus on the internal mechanism of the watch, yet somehow he couldn't rid himself of the mental image of Peter... skin moist and glistening... t-shirt soaked and clapped to his sculpted, muscled body... hair stringy and pushed back clumsily off his flushed face, tousled and ruffled and so thick and dark and -

  
  


No. The watch. There was the balance wheel. There was the escapement. The mainspring had uncoiled and needed fixing. It was trailing in one long strand and curling at the end... exactly like that one lock of Peter's hair that had been hanging over his eye when the door had opened...

  
  


Gabriel let out a shaky breath, forced to admit that he was past it. How could he concentrate on his precious time piece right now... when something so much more appealing was drawing all of his attention? Feeling daring, he chanced a look in the direction Peter had gone.

  
  


And the little progress he had made was shot to hell the moment his eyes landed on a magnificently naked torso. Gabriel's whole body twitched and he was sure he actually squeaked aloud. It was impossible to breathe, and there was no chance of tearing his eyes away from what he suspected he shouldn't really be watching at all. But he just couldn't help himself.

  
  


The bathroom door was open a crack, and Peter's reflection was visible in the mirror above the sink. He was standing there facing away, drying his arms and hair with a towel and completely unaware that Gabriel was staring transfixed from the other room.

  
  


*

  
  


“So have you looked around the place some more? First step: laundry, second step: the scary boxes in the closet...” Peter doubted the answer would be 'yes', but he could hardly blame the man. Since moving back here Gabriel had been insistent on avoiding as much information of his past self as he could. He didn't want to know anything that might hurt, and Peter secretly agreed with this idea.

  
  


He remembered only too well feeling the exact same back in Ireland, when he had been given a box of his possessions – the only clues to his lost identity – while he had been suffering amnesia of his own. And knew how scary the thought of an unknown past could be. Whereas his decision to eventually open the box had been the right one, Gabriel's worries had real standing. Whatever was left of the man Sylar in this place... there probably wouldn't be much goodness in it.

  
  


“No.” Came a strangled reply, and he stopped pushing the matter, busying himself with drying his stomach. Gabriel sounded angry, or upset for some reason, and Peter felt awfully like he was to blame. So he did what he always did when he felt nervous or guilty, and talked too quickly about nothing and no one in particular.

  
  


*

  
  


It was as if something had snapped inside of Gabriel – not a memory leak, not a brief sense of belonging, not even (thankfully) another kick to the gut of unfounded guilt like whenever Peter mentioned his brother – this was a kind of wonderful _hunger_. Famished, desperate and insatiable. This was so much more than the prickling, naughty heat he'd felt when watching that movie a few days ago. So much more than the dreams. He yearned for something... but not an ability, or knowledge, or power... he yearned to _touch_.

  
  


And this entire time, Peter was rambling aimlessly about some old woman and her dog he'd seen on the subway, painfully oblivious to Gabriel's predicament.

  
  


How had he never noticed the beautiful angles of that man's body before?! To be fair, he hadn't ever seen Peter this indecent, even while they had lived together. But now he could do nothing but watch and burn as his eyes drank in this sight to behold. Smooth, peachy skin... a smattering of freckles across his shoulders... he could even see goosebumps caught in the glaring bathroom light, rippling down the man's ribs and the small of his back. Every muscle tightened and strained as Peter pulled one of _Gabriel's_ own t-shirts over his head. The fabric slithered over his skin, gathered and tugged as he pulled it down, regretfully obscuring his bare back but clinging _just right_ _t_ o his narrow hips...

  
  


The full-body tenseness and sizzling insides were such foreign concepts to pure, innocent Gabriel, and he really began to panic as his throat literally constricted. He feared he was dying, that he was having an allergic reaction to something, or maybe a panic attack like he had read about! He felt dizzy, his head was too heavy, and he started burning up.

  
  


*

  
  


“Thanks for these too, but I don't want to be tripping up all day long.” Peter chuckled, carrying through Gabriel's too long jeans, having decided to stick with his own. Then he caught sight of Gabriel, set the jeans down on the plastic-covered armchair and crossed to his side. “You feeling okay?” He asked, burying the beginnings of worry that had flared up. The guy was turning red, seemed to be struggling for breath and his hands were trembling, if Peter wasn't mistaken.

  
  


“Fine.” Gabriel nodded curtly, picking up a screwdriver and setting to work again on the pocket watch. But his hands were now shaking so much that the tool kept tapping a frenzied tune off the gears and screws.

  
  


Okay, even if Peter hadn't felt the telltale tingle of a lie, he would have to be an idiot to think that was 'fine'. “Let me see.” He said calmly, taking the screwdriver from Gabriel's sticky hand, setting it safely out of the way on the bench, and pushing his shoulder to encourage him to turn around. He then began to gently fuss over the man, touching his sweltering face, the back of his neck, subtly checking his vital signs. “Are you dizzy? Feeling nauseous or anxious?” Gabriel's temperature was worryingly high, his respiration speedy and shallow, and Peter felt safe enough to guess that his heart rate would be skyrocketing.

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel wondered for a moment if his face was literally on fire (another unknown ability perhaps?) and this was only made worse by being petted and caressed by those compassionate hands. He felt stupid, felt like a fraud, but at the same time he genuinely worried that something horrible was happening to him. By now the intelligent man had discerned that _Peter_ was the cause of his reaction, even if still didn't know how or why or even _what_ the damned thing was. But he wasn't about to swat the guy away now that his face was being cradled and touched so intimately. So tenderly.

  
  


“I'm fine, Peter. Just a bit tired.” He whispered, worried that his voice would come out an octave higher than usual. His palms were sweating so much that they kept slipping off the armrests of his chair, and even if he hadn't been scared to move too much and overbalance, he wouldn't have leaned back from Peter's preposterous closeness.

  
  


“Did you forget I work in a hospital? That I deal with patients pretending they're fine every day?” Gabriel sat frozen, aware of every single touch to his skin, and watched those little red lips smile kindly. Then soft fingers tipped Gabriel's head up, and Peter's stared right into the depths of his soul. Okay, really he suspected the former nurse was doing some medical procedure, checking his pupil dilation or something, but Gabriel had never felt as exposed as he did while those entrancing, hazel orbs roamed over him. Still slightly flushed from running over to the apartment, Gabriel could smell Peter's skin and hair so strongly. It was heavenly, and he greedily soaked up the scents. He needed them more than he needed air itself – which was pretty badly in his current state. “When did this start up?”

  
  


“Just – just now.” He shrugged, trying to look innocent and not as if his entire body was screaming out to wrap around Peter's. He'd never needed touch as badly in his short life, which was saying something, as he'd not really had anything much in the way of bodily contact at all.

  
  


Seemingly happy with that answer, Peter nodded and continued to inspect him very professionally and reassuringly. Gabriel was attacked by his own swarm of goosebumps. It was all becoming too much, so he reluctantly pulled his blushing face out of Peter's hands. He was unable to look at him any longer without being rewarded by painful heat scorching his veins and turning his brain to mulch. He _wanted_ to stay exactly where he was, hypnotised. But he _needed_ distance, some time to compose himself.

  
  


*

  
  


It probably wasn't that serious, whatever was going on. But still Peter couldn't help but worry, feeling helpless despite his years of medical training. “Maybe you should lie down? That way if you faint there's nowhere to fall.” He suggested, hoping that whatever had happened to his friend was indeed a problem his training could deal with and not some ability-related side-effect that had been sneaking up on them the whole time. It was still difficult to shake the paranoia that had sunk in along with these powers. There were _always_ things unseen going on beneath the surface, and he strongly wished this wasn't one of those things.

  
  


“No... I'll be fine.” Gabriel said quickly. He picked up the screwdriver again, but this time just twirled it in his shaky fingers instead of attempting to work.

  
  


“Maybe it's low blood sugar. When did you last eat?”

  
  


“Uh...” Gabriel's face scrunched up in thought and he squirmed in his chair as if he just couldn't get comfortable. Sweat beaded at his hairline, and a rash was blossoming over his neck and collarbones. “Morning.”

  
  


Finally, some helpful news. It was after 6pm now. “Then no wonder you're feeling faint! You _do_ know that humans need food to live, right?” Peter joked. “Although technically _you_ don't. But you still need to turn on regeneration if you decide not to eat.” He felt considerably better equipped to deal with this situation now, if still a little concerned. “Stay here. Don't try to get up.” He commanded, pressing Gabriel's shoulder down firmly to back up his words before searching the nearby kitchen cupboards.

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel hadn't meant to skip meals, but he had been so absorbed in his work that he just hadn't noticed the time pass as he, ironically, counted every second. He trusted Peter's doctoring completely, but something told him it wasn't hunger that was winding him into such a tight ball of nerves and tension. At least, not the regular I-need-my-dinner hunger.

  
  


The imprint of Peter's hand lingered on Gabriel's shoulder for longer than the touch had even lasted. He was quivering, as if his internal organs were dancing around inside him and his heart was frantically trying to burst from his chest. He knew he probably had large sweat stains on his shirt, and cringed because Peter must have seen them. It was funny, in a slightly amusing way, that he could be dying here for all he knew, but he still didn't want Peter to think of him as disgusting. Talk about priorities.

  
  


He dropped the screwdriver (the handle now hot and damp from his hand), scratched at his itchy skin and tried to unwind his aching muscles. The source of all this was most definitely the little man who was currently running around to make him feel better. Whose kindness only further confused the maelstrom of conflicting emotions bubbling away inside Gabriel. He needed to get a grip on this, or Peter might not come back to see him again. If he knew he was the cause of this problem, he undoubtedly would distance himself for Gabriel's recovery, and that was the last thing the watchmaker wanted.

  
  


Now that Peter was further away than arm's reach, his mind unclouded just enough to form a coherent thought: Gabriel would just have to control himself. Although the touches had felt _sinfully_ good, and he would happily, painfully drown in them without complaint: he desperately needed to break the surface for air. And for sanity.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter returned with a glass of water and some cream crackers, and perched on the edge of Gabriel's workbench. “Here, take these. Sip it slowly.” He offered them gently, watching with full concern and care as Gabriel did as he was told.

  
  


At least this might suggest that Gabriel hadn't been displeased to see him after all: he had been feeling unwell, not annoyed. That was comforting, even if it was overshadowed by the worry for his friend's well being. For a moment there Peter had felt the old familiar cold shoulder looming, and as always, it had hurt like a bitch. It had only been a few weeks in the making but already this relationship secretly was the most important in Peter's life, second perhaps to his brother. And the fact that Nathan still hadn't bothered returning his calls was not working in his favour to reserve the space of “most important” in Peter's heart.

  
  


“Thanks.” Gabriel sighed, breathing out a slow, long breath and closing his yes. He took another sip of water and pressed the cool glass to his forehead.

  
  


“No problem.” Peter murmured, his eyes roaming over Gabriel's pink face once again. Hopefully his symptoms would let up soon, because Peter hated the thought of leaving him here like this alone. Once Gabriel lowered the glass to drink again, the former nurse reached up and pressed his palm to the other man's forehead, now cold in the centre. “Feel better?”

  
  


*

  
  


No. Not while any part of you is close to or touching me, Gabriel thought. But saying that aloud would rightly upset his dearest friend, and so the words fizzled and died before he would even contemplate trying to phrase them differently. Hot shivers spread out from Peter's soft skin, and Gabriel's navel twisted painfully. “Yeah.” He said, smiling a little and was both heartbroken and grateful when the hand was removed from his forehead. He found it slightly easier to draw breath than he had before, but was still too tightly wound, too aware of every straining nerve ending he possessed. The ones closest to Peter seemed to buzz from proximity alone.

  
  


“Good.” Peter said, but it was obvious he didn't believe him. He was smiling though, and Gabriel put all his effort into _not_ looking at the strands of his glorious hair framing that face. They were still damp, and sporadic little droplets kept falling onto Gabriel's arm that rested on the table. Each one fizzled through the fabric of his sleeve like acid, printed forever onto his skin.

  
  


*

  
  


At least he seemed to have improved a little, if not fully. Peter checked his watch, grimacing at the time. “I really gotta get going. Are you gonna be alright?” He asked, trying not to notice that the lie detector ability was very much on and waiting in the background of his mind.

  
  


“Yeah. I think so. I just need... some time. I think.”

  
  


Nothing to suggest any deception that time, which was encouraging. “Okay. Just rest up for a bit.” Peter stood. “If it gets any worse – call me. No matter what.” He waited until Gabriel nodded and had taken another drink to feel safe enough to leave him.

  
  


Only as an afterthought he asked to borrow flight. Gabriel hesitated for a brief second before offering his forearm (not his hand as he usually did, Peter noted uneasily). It was regretful to lose this current ability now that he could probably use it to wheedle the truth out of Gabriel but he really didn't have another option. Flight was the only way to get to work in any semblance of “almost on time”, so he took it. It was that easy – the reason he'd turned up in the first place. But after all of this, he'd even almost forgotten about it.

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel actually felt the tension leave his body when Peter walked away. The excruciating suffering lifted, but loneliness threatened to crash down in its wake. “Thanks for looking after me, Pete.” He forced a smile when Peter turned, feeling awful and dirty and guilty for keeping so much locked away from this man, for spying on him while he changed, and for being unable to share any of this aloud. Even if he'd known what it all meant, he still doubted he would tell him.

  
  


“You're welcome.” Followed one of Gabriel's favourite smiles. But this time, when Peter had almost reached the window, he stopped of his own accord. When he looked back, his eyes were tainted with insecurity. “Hey... d'you still want me to come round tomorrow? I don't have to if... if you're not feeling up to it? Or if you want to be by yourself?”

  
  


Gabriel's already fatigued heart compressed. “More than anything.” Even if he had to suffer through this anxiety attack/burning alive hybrid sensation every time he was near Peter, he'd rather face it tenfold than never see him again.

  
  


A shy, relieved smile lit up Peter's face. “Okay.” He nodded once, then slid the window open and disappeared into the darkened sky. The _whoosh_ of a man flying away above the city faded after him, leaving Gabriel completely alone once again.

  
  


Somehow, as soon as the caring nurse was gone, the patient began a miraculous recovery. The dizziness and heat eased, but his whole body continued to ache and strain so tightly, and now Gabriel was left with the annoying situation of wondering what to do to return to his normal state. Last time the feeling had faded on it's own, regurgitated only when he thought of it, but now... he had no intention of waiting this out to fix itself up. At least he was in no hurry, and had until tomorrow night to work out a solution for this situation. But he hoped it wouldn't take that long, he doubted he could withstand the frustration eating up his whole body for much longer.

  
  


It was such a bizarre feeling, like a pulled muscle or an itch he didn't know how to scratch. He tried to think back to any of the books he'd read, but none that Peter had given him, nor ones already in this apartment, had given him any kind of advice that he could remember. So he was left to explore for a resolution all by himself. His mind failed to supply much helpful direction due to his blood flow rushing south...

  
  


The smell of Peter's skin still lingered on Gabriel, and the only images that came to mind were the paramedic's naked back, his breathtaking eyes and the feel of his hands scouring all over Gabriel's face and neck. When he looked down, he could still see the water droplets staining his sleeve: an actual, real-life trinket of Peter Petrelli left behind on his body...

  
  


That night, Gabriel Gray experienced his very first orgasm.

 

 


	7. Do You Trust Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's only one little word, but to Gabriel it feels like signing away his soul...

“Okay, I know I was a jerk not to call you back for so long before, but I was busy, alright? I must've left you a million messages... I get the hint. I'm sorry. I won't avoid your calls ever again if that's what this is about!” Peter ran a hand through his hair in frustration, and let out a deep breath. “Look, I know the last thing you probably want right now is a clingy little brother, but I'm getting worried here, Nathan! How can you leave me hanging like this when I need to talk to you? I want to tell you about something... important. _Really_ important to me. Don't punish me like this -”

  
  


Suddenly there was a loud _bang_ behind him, and Peter jumped in shock. But it was only the door, and he smiled a hurried greeting to Hesam before huddling back over his phone. “Call me. _Please_.” He murmured so his voice wouldn't echo in the almost empty hospital locker room, then hung up and continued to change out of his uniform and back into Gabriel's t-shirt and his own, now dry, jeans.

  
  


“Ouch, _someone's_ in the doghouse.”

  
  


Peter finished buckling his belt and caught the end of Hesam's supposed-to-be-knowing look. “Yeah. Guess so.” He huffed slightly, raw and hurt inside as he always was when Nathan neglected him. But he hid it well behind tiredness after that night's long shift.

  
  


*

  
  


“So what happened?” Hesam asked, opening his own, adjacent locker. His work partner, although the nicest guy Hesam had ever met (who anybody had ever met probably), was filled to the brim with secrets. It was infuriating sometimes, and so a rare snippet such as this into his usually so private life was beyond intriguing.

  
  


“It's just my brother. Y'know – family stuff.” Peter shrugged with a little smile, and that was the end of that. Vague and discreet as ever.

  
  


“Huh. If _I_ was on a Caribbean vacation, you'd think I'd have nothing to complain about...” Hesam rolled his eyes. Give Senator Nathan Petrelli just _one_ shift as a paramedic, then maybe he'd learn to appreciate his easy, fancy life. “So how's he enjoying it out there, anyway?” He asked just to make conversation. Although he liked Peter – it was always a blessing to get a work partner you could get on well with – he could never make himself care about the guy's conceited big brother.

  
  


*

  
  


“What? Yeah. Yeah, good. He's having a great time.” Peter nodded, very aware that he was lying rather than admitting that he simply couldn't get a hold of his brother. He must have left a dozen messages and multiple texts by now. He tried not to let that build into a bad feeling, and put it down to his own guilt at upsetting Nathan by ignoring him those weeks ago. Because that's what this was: pay-back. It was just like Nathan to make sure Peter knew his mistake and to drill the message in firmly. And it had worked: he'd learned his lesson. Next time the elder Petrelli called asking for help, Peter would answer on the first ring – even if only a few weeks before he had been a fugitive on the run from his brother's murderous hunters. The feeling of letting Nathan down weighed heavily on Peter, and the remorse would eat him up if he let it.

  
  


But mostly he was bitter, and annoyed. He wanted to tell his best friend about Gabriel – the next most important person in his life. But becoming roomies, and then friends, with an ex-killer who has returned from the dead and forgotten himself isn't the type of thing you leave in a message, and he wanted to be able to talk Nathan round his inevitable anger. He assumed that Angela hadn't already told him, as Nathan Petrelli would never miss a chance to have his opinion heard on a matter as important as this one.

  
  


“Well I hope he's not having too much fun – tell him to get his butt back here and stop making us little people jealous!” Hesam joked, and Peter faked a laugh. He continued changing in a thoughtful silence, his mind spinning way out ahead of him.

  
  


There was another thing irritating him about Nathan's vacation: it had coincidentally been booked in secret right after Peter had asked for help with the whole Gabriel issue at the beginning, and Nathan showed no signs of returning home anytime soon. It wasn't that Peter minded that the hard-working Senator had taken some time off, but it had been finding out through his assistant at the office (after finally getting impatient enough to call the desk number) that had been a real slap to the face. So not only was Peter not deserving of help, but it seemed he also wasn't deserving of a “heads up” or even a “goodbye”. He had tried not to let it bother him, he really had, but verging on seven weeks with no word from his brother was beyond rude, and was now plain insulting. And a little bit worrying. But he had enough on his plate as it was without fretting about yet another situation, so tried not to dwell on it too much.

  
  


*

  
  


Hesam had been meaning to ask for the duration of the entire shift, but it hadn't seemed appropriate during the rescue and resuscitation of the newly-wed couple trapped in their smashed-in car. But now there was no excuse, and Peter was lacing up his boots, ready to leave, when he finally blurted the words out. He tried not to look too eager, but the not-knowing had practically driven him crazy. “I can't take it anymore, man! Please tell me who she is, I'm going insane here!” He dug his hands sharply into his hips in a no-nonsense way, a smile breaking out over his face.

  
  


Peter, meanwhile, just blinked up at him, seemingly utterly surprised by this startling new conversation. “Who?” He asked, and Hesam could almost see his mind working as he tried to get out of this one.

  
  


“The girl!”

  
  


“What girl?” This time Peter actually frowned in thought, as if the mere idea was ridiculous. Yeah right! Hesam wasn't falling for that one. He was determined to get some information out of the guy – it had been too long since they'd had a proper chat. Busy shifts and too many recent emergencies had their part to play in that, but Hesam hadn't missed the change in his partner over the past few weeks.

  
  


“Oh c'mon, man! In all the time I've known you it's been practically impossible to pry you from the job! But now all of a sudden you can't wait to get going, you're not pulling as many shifts, I actually see you _smiling_ to yourself, and now heartfelt apologies on the phone... do you think I'm an idiot? “Brother” my ass...” He grinned at Peter, eyes twinkling and enthusiasm ripe on his face.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter just gaped while he absorbed all of that information. Had he really been...? No, of course he hadn't. Hesam had his facts mixed up and had jumped to conclusions. Quite understandable ones, if this were about anyone else, but in the miraculous life of Peter Petrelli – sadly, harbouring a mind-wiped, super-powered mass murderer was more realistic than getting a girlfriend. He chuckled and finished up tying his laces, grateful that at least Hesam hadn't guessed the truth. But really, how could he?

  
  


“There's no girl.”

  
  


“Right.”

  
  


“Just... a friend. Really, it's not what you think.” Embarrassment tickled at the insinuation of Gabriel as “the girl”, but he couldn't exactly explain the truth to Hesam. It was better to let him think what he wanted than to be looked at as a crazy person who lived in a world filled with superhuman abilities and unbelievable situations.

  
  


Hesam raised his eyebrows. “Y'know, it's not criminal to let someone in, Pete. Company is _good_ for you – It's been scientifically proven.”

  
  


“I'm sure it has.” Peter smiled to himself, amused by remembering himself and Gabriel, night after night, eating their way through all the take-out in the city while marathoning film after film after film. Hesam was right: some company had certainly been good for him recently. He stood from the bench and pulled on Gabriel's jacket (there was _no_ way he was telling Hesam where it came from, that was for sure).

  
  


*

  
  


The guy was full of it, there was no doubt in Hesam's mind. But truthfully, the denial didn't really bother him. As long as Peter was happy, and he clearly was, then Hesam was pleased for him. 'Just a friend' or not, he'd long been in sore need of some human interaction outside of work. “Why don't you take that “friend” of yours out? Go on an actual date? When was the last time you did that?”

  
  


“A... 'date'?” Peter tipped his head to the side slightly, face twisting as he contemplated the statement. “Hm. What's one of those again?” He teased, and Hesam playfully punched his arm.

  
  


“Whatever, keep your secrets, Pete. Just know that I'm happy for you.” He clapped a hand to Peter's back, smiling kindly at him at getting a cheerfully surprised one in return.

  
  


*

  
  


“Thanks, man.” Peter smiled, really meaning it. Sure, Hesam was his partner, and they got on well in a simple, superficial way, but it hadn't occurred to him that his well-being was really thought about by the guy. It was nice to hear. “See you Friday.” He said, scooping up his bag and closing his locker door.

  
  


Returning to his own locker, Hesam clicked his fingers after Peter. “Go get 'em, you heartbreaker!” He winked, and Peter slipped away into the hall as to avoid answering or being called out on his pink cheeks.

  
  


Well, that had been sufficiently embarrassing. Peter chuckled to himself just imagining turning up at Gabriel's house with a bouquet of flowers and whisking him off to some romantic location with candles and slow music. And the most ridiculous part of that scenario wasn't dating his ex-enemy, his now close friend: it was the thought of successfully getting Gabriel out of the apartment in the first place. Which was pretty sad, and it still bothered Peter that the world was passing Gabriel by with every day he spent purposefully letting it do so.

  
  


Hesam's assumption might be ludicrous, and he might be way off base, but Peter had to admit that his suggestion undeniably had merit. Maybe he _should_ drag Gabriel outside kicking and screaming, treat him to a nice time and show him that the city wasn't the awful, terrifying place he thought it was? It couldn't hurt to try, after all. And if things went terribly then they just wouldn't go out again, or until Peter managed to convince Gabriel a second time.

  
  


But it most certainly, definitely, wouldn't be a date.

  
  


  
  


***

  
  


As usual, Gabriel was working on a timepiece when the door went. He had set out a monster of a mantle clock, hurriedly gutted the case and arranged the clockwork to look like he'd been working on it for hours, when really, he had _just_ finished the same pocket watch from the night before. He had slept astoundingly well after his fantastic pre-bed escapade (which had been promptly followed by more once he'd had a taste for such ecstasy), and much of today had passed with more of the same before he had finally settled down to the workbench much too late to do any real work.

 

Of course, he couldn't let Peter know that – he had to look busy. He had to hide the fact that he had been eagerly counting the seconds before seeing him again, reminiscent of their early days together at Peter's apartment.

  
  


*

  
  


Having received no distress call during the night, Peter had expected Gabriel to be in better health than he had left him. But he hadn't expected him to be practically glowing, beaming and looking like he was doped-up on some delirious cocktail of merriment. “Wow – what an improvement!” He happily reviewed, eyeing Gabriel up and down. He crossed the threshold of the apartment and dumped his bag inside the door, laden with movies and the borrowed clothes. He had gone home to sleep for a generous five hours after work, and set aside time to clean Gabriel's clothes at his own place to save the guy another trip to the dreaded laundry room so soon after his last adventure. “You feeling better then?”

  
  


“Yes. Much.” Gabriel grinned, a tight-lipped, wide grin that made Peter slightly suspicious of a hidden story there. But he moved swiftly on from that, too busy psyching himself up to break his forthcoming plan to Gabriel.

  
  


“Glad to hear it. So what've you been up to today?” He asked, crossing to the workbench and pretending to notice a difference to how it had looked yesterday. He couldn't just pounce on Gabriel with the horrific suggestion of _going outside_! He had to work up to it. Ease him in gently.

  
  


*

  
  


“Uh...” Gabriel squirmed guiltily, recalling exactly _what_ he had done that day and precisely how many times. “Nothing new. Just a few jobs here and there...” He crossed to the table beside Peter, standing just a little too close. He had been craving his scent all day, left to go by memory alone, and now breathed it in deeply. He hadn't been doing it justice.

  
  


“Cool. What're you doing to that one?” Peter asked, pointing at the empty shell of the mantle clock. For a moment Gabriel panicked, sure he had been caught out and Peter would know what he had done and who he had been thinking of the whole time, because the inner cogs of the clock shouldn't have been stripped the way they had been, and the damn thing had come around to betray him. But then he actually took a second to think – who was he kidding? Peter couldn't even tell the difference between a spring and a ratchet. So, at least for now, Gabriel's secret was safe.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter's secret, however, was bubbling to the surface. He had spent the time since leaving work deciding on the perfect destination for tonight, and he had a great feeling about it. Somewhere not too crowded, not too loud, and ideal for showing Gabriel the best side of the city.

  
  


“I'm adjusting the pendulum bob. The piece is running slo-”

  
  


“I want to take you somewhere. Tonight.” Peter blurted, watching for Gabriel's reaction intently. He himself was buzzing with excitement, and smiled openly at Gabriel in hopes of infecting him with the same bug. But the man just looked at him uneasily.

  
  


“Wh-where?”

  
  


“It's a surprise. We need to get you out into the real world, Gabriel. You've been hiding away too long – you have no idea what you're missing!” He insisted, gently taking hold of Gabriel's upper arm and squeezing it slightly. “Let me show you. Please.”

  
  


Gabriel's round, dark eyes fell onto Peter's hand, and for a moment he just stared at it while he thought. Then licked his lips and turned a pleading gaze on Peter. “But what about Die Hard? I've been looking forward to it.”

  
  


Peter rolled his eyes, removing his hand and laughing a little at Gabriel's sullen pout. “Don't worry, we'll watch it when we come back, okay? It won't take long, then we can watch the entire series if you want! Just come out with me first.”

  
  


This time when Gabriel shrank away, he seemed to retreat into himself the way he had in the holding room in Baltimore. He looked almost as lost and terrified now as he had then, and it was heart-wrenching. Peter almost gave up then and there and prepared to settle down to an evening full of John McClane and his definite regeneration ability. And he would have done, if it weren't for the feeling that he knew, somehow really _knew,_ that if he didn't get Gabriel outside tonight – he probably would never be able to do so again.

  
  


“But... what if we see other people?” Gabriel squeaked, reaching out and running his fingers across his trusted clocks and tools for support.

  
  


Peter exaggerated a sigh, leaning on the back of the chair. “That's generally a pretty big part of “going outside”. But you don't have to be afraid of people – you can't get hurt! You can heal!” He added, just in case Gabriel had somehow forgotten that fact. “And nobody is gonna try to hurt you. I won't let them. Alright?”

  
  


*

  
  


All of Gabriel's earlier bright mood had been totally ruined by fear and anxiety. He didn't want to leave – he wanted to stay right here with movies and Peter and his annoying fidgeting and tapping fingers throughout the entire night! But the blackening cloud had began to clear a little at those last words. Breathing deeply, he raised his face to level Peter's, and was reminded all over again how much this beautiful man meant to him.

 

“But what if something bad happens to _you_?”

  
  


There was a brief silence, a moment of clarity as Peter seemed to wrap his head around this new angle for the first time. “...Wha- really? I'm outside all the time!” Peter reasoned gently, and Gabriel burned under his sympathetic look. “I go to work, I travel between here and my apartment. I _fly_ across the city, Gabriel.”

  
  


“But that's different.”

  
  


“How? How's it different?” He coaxed gently.

  
  


By the look on his face, the man really wanted to know. Gabriel puffed out a breath and waved his arms at his sides, looking away and rambling all at once. “What if something bad happens to you... and I can't do anything? What if it's my fault? What if you get mugged, or hit by a car, and I did nothing to stop it? There are too many dangers out there, too many mistakes – it's too scary!” He didn't think he could bear seeing Peter broken and bleeding and lifeless once more. The memories were bad enough, and he knew those deaths had only been temporary. The thought of a final, absolute end was utterly terrifying.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter was momentarily lost for words. If that had been Gabriel's problem all along – not a fear for himself getting hurt, but a fear of _inadequacy –_ then Peter had been going about this all wrong. But, regardless of the reason, the guy couldn't just live out the rest of his eternal days locked away in here.

 

“Yeah. Some of i _t_ _is_ scary. But I promise, some of it is wonderful too.” He said softly, digging his nails into the leather of the chair. “You can't avoid living your life over what might or might not happen. You can't limit yourself because you're afraid to experience new things or – or take the leap. D'you get what I'm saying?” It seemed Gabriel was chewing over these words, eyes cast down at the carpet. Eventually he nodded, and Peter felt a little optimism leak back into his bloodstream. His lips lifted at the corners. “It's not always the best choice, and sometimes you'll make mistakes... but if you don't jump, you'll never know if you can fly.”

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel was instantly thrown back to one particular memory flash, a golden oldie: Peter, so high above him, toppling over the edge of an impossibly high rooftop and soaring through the air so gracefully like an angel, his arms outstretched, his coat billowing out behind him like wings... Peter had taken the leap. And he had plummeted towards the ground. But at least he had tried, and without that stupid bravery, he wouldn't be where he was today. He wouldn't be sitting here across from Gabriel, he wouldn't have discovered his superhuman ability and would never have saved the world from destruction a few times over.

  
  


“Come out with me.” Peter repeated, extending a hand in invitation. “Alright? Do you trust me?”

  
  


He was so encouraging and sweet, a bright light shining to chase away the dark and fear. However, Gabriel's nerves hadn't just up and fled after a few reassuring (or alright, amazingly reassuring) words from his best friend. But they had definitely been eased a little by the hope in Peter's eyes. Gabriel did trust him. More than anything. And although the sickening thought of the countless disasters just waiting to happen still crippled him, he raised his arm slowly. And slipped his hand into Peter's.

  
  


He swallowed a few times, and felt the warm fingers tighten supportively around his. “...Yes.” He breathed, nodding at the same time. It was only one little word, but it felt like signing away his soul. At least the destined keeper was the only person worthy enough to take that prized piece of him. “Yes, I do.” He licked his dry lips again, telling himself that it was all going to be okay. “You're right. Let's go out.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check out the next chapter :)


	8. If You Don't Jump, You'll Never Know If You Can Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's word has never led Gabriel astray, so he buries his crippling terror and pretends he's brave, the way he wants to be...

“Ready...? Okay, wait. Stand here... no, just _here_. Yeah. Okay... open.” Peter bounced sightly on the balls of his feet as he watched Gabriel lower his hands from his face and feast his eyes on the fantastic sight before them.

  
  


The man looked about himself for a minute, confused, as if unsure where they were. Then he did a double-take and his mouth actually fell open. Peter caught himself grinning like a maniac, but he didn't care. The amazement lighting up his companion's face was intoxicating, and Peter was so immensely happy that he hadn't dropped this idea. It had been a brilliant one after all.

  
  


*

  
  


Finally, Gabriel remembered to speak. “It's... beautiful.” He hummed, looking over the vast skyline again. Immense, black shapes against a vibrant, red sunset, with millions of twinkling lights spanning across the city like a Christmas decoration, and the entire thing was mirrored in the rippling, reflective river. “It's just like in that movie...” He mused, still staring in awe at how such an awful mess of buildings and crime and murder and disaster could really look that good from the outside.

  
  


“Um, you're gonna have to be a little more specific!” Peter laughed, patting Gabriel's shoulder in the touchy-feely way he always did when he was in a good mood. “So were you surprised?”

  
  


“Yes.” Gabriel had guessed they must be somewhere high up when Peter had flown with him and Gabriel had had to awkwardly make sure not to peek at where they were going while also trying not to crash into anything. But he hadn't expected this. It really _was_ lovely... New York City looked so harmless, _alive_. It didn't look intimidating at all from out here, instead it looked... inviting. But Gabriel knew that was only an illusion, and he was very grateful that Peter had chosen a place where he could see the city from a safe distance and not be too near other people. This wasn't so bad.

  
  


*

  
  


The two men stayed at the top of the Brooklyn Bridge for many silent minutes, with their elbows leaning on the railing and standing so close to each other on the small platform that their shoulders were pressed together. Peter drank in Gabriel's wonder and pleasure, letting it also fill him up by association and chase away his earlier anger at Nathan. This was a perfect spot to introduce someone new to the world: private, secluded and personal. Here they were merely unseen observers, watching as the sunset faded, the lights grew brighter and evening evolved into night.

  
  


Peter purposely forgot about Die Hard. He hoped Gabriel had too.

  
  


“You were right.” Gabriel confessed, nudging Peter playfully. “I didn't know what I was missing.”

  
  


“See? It's not that scary.”

  
  


“I know.”

  
  


Peter watched as Gabriel looked out over the city again, admiring the serenity rolling off him, the angles of his tall, lean body and his strong profile. There had been a time when that face had been the most frightening thing in the world to Peter, but not now. Now, wearing a content expression and his hair softly tucked behind his ears like it always was nowadays, the man looked quite stunning if Peter allowed himself to think it. And although it was unusual, it was definitely refreshing to see him out and about in a new location for once. Peter hoped that this could be the beginning of a new lease of life for his friend.

  
  


“I don't think I'm quite ready to go running through dark alleyways next time, though.” Gabriel added and they laughed. The sound was carried away over the water. “But I could get used to _this_.”

  
  


Up high at the top of the bridge, the air was cold but not uncomfortably so, and the pair breathed in the strong scent of sea and salt and exhaust fumes rising from the cars far below them. Peter shivered a little, garnering warmth from Gabriel's body heat beside him. His eyes crinkled when Gabriel turned a little triumphant smile his way. “Yeah. So could I.”

  
  


“Thank you for taking me out here.” Gabriel looked back out to the city, murmuring as if more to himself than to Peter, although the words undoubtedly were directed at him.

  
  


“Don't worry about it. I just wanted to help.” Peter lifted his shoulders in a humble acceptance, lips still curved in response to his friend's apparent, speedy progress. He didn't think that the guy would have accepted this as quickly as he had, and it was heart-warming to watch.

  
  


“You always do, don't you?” If that question had come from anyone else, Peter would have taken it as sarcasm or disdain or some sort. But from Gabriel it was a real question, genuine, and he asked it with the sincerity of everything else that he asked about Peter. Because he really wanted to know these things.

  
  


The empath's incessant need to help everyone had been talked down and cast about so much around him, and he knew that so many people thought him a fool. Maybe he _was_ one to invest so much into the well being of others and leave nothing for himself, like his mother thought, like Nathan thought, even like Hesam thought. But if that was true, then Peter would gladly be that fool. He needed to be.

  
  


He dipped his head in a single nod, looking down upon the roofs of passing cars. “Yeah. I do.” He admitted.

  
  


*

  
  


“What's that like?” Gabriel asked softly, leaning just a little bit more of his weight into Peter. He couldn't possibly be nearer to the man than he already was, with half of his body pressed against him this way, but still he needed more. Somehow in the vastness of open space, he felt closer to this person than he ever did when they were both within the same four walls. Yet there was so much more that he wanted to know about him, to understand.

  
  


“What d'you mean? What's it like to help people?”

  
  


Gabriel nodded.

  
  


“Good I guess. Fulfilling.” Then a little smile broke across Peter's face just at the thought. “I like making people happy. It feels nice to save a life, but just as nice to point someone in the right direction if they need it. A smile, a kind word, a tiny effort on my part can mean so much to someone else. You can never know what kinda day they're having – maybe one smile from a stranger will make all the difference to that one person. It's the least I can do.” Then he seemed to catch himself rambling, and shook his head shyly. “Anyway, you get the gist.”

  
  


“And what's it like to _want_ _t_ o help all the time?” Gabriel asked, wondering if he should worry that he, himself, was lacking that characteristic. He had no interest in anyone else, as much as he thought he ought to. The only people he had any time for in the world were both standing on this cramped little platform.

  
  


Peter scoffed. “A pain in my ass!” Then his shoulder shook against Gabriel's, and the pleasant sound of his laughter was swept away from them in the wind.

  
  


*

  
  


“How d'you mean?”

  
  


“Well, wanting to do much more than I actually can really knocks the shit outta me. It makes me more aware of what I'm _not_ doing, no matter how much I manage to accomplish.” Then his voice faded a little, and he began to peel flakes of rust off the railing absent-mindedly. He hated thinking of that, it always made him feel so helpless. “Why d'you ask anyway?” He deflected the conversation back on Gabriel.

  
  


Now it was the watchmaker who shrugged, and copied Peter by breaking off some rust of his own. “Because it's so important to you, and I want to understand it fully.” He said simply, as if that was the most casual thing in the world. “I know we've talked about this before, but when we get too deep... sometimes I feel like you're holding back. Why do you do that?”

  
  


Peter's breath left him in a tiny puff, and he didn't know what to say to that. Had he been holding back? Probably. But it wasn't on purpose, and he felt awful that Gabriel had noticed and must think it was his fault. Which of course it wasn't... it was Peter's. He had always been that way: honest and open and too forgiving. Yet a small pile of secrets was hidden away under lock and key, and nobody could ever reach them... his fears and weaknesses. But this was the closest connection he had had with anyone in so long – he had even stopped confiding these deepest matters to Nathan, who on a good day would listen and comfort Peter, then the next morning he'd tease him over what he'd revealed. That was if he even acknowledged it at all! Meanwhile here, with Gabriel Gray, Peter knew he could let his defences down for the first time in his memory.

  
  


It was scary to look inward on all the things that he had spent years tucking away and hoping never to look at again. But maybe he needed this. What was it Hesam had said? 'It's not criminal to let someone in, Pete'...

  
  


“You're right. I don't mean to shut you out, but... I guess I'm just... ashamed.” He admitted aloud for the first time, not looking at anything in particular.

  
  


“Ashamed of what?” Gabriel asked lightly, clueless to the cavern he had just opened.

  
  


“When I help people... it's not all selfless.” Peter suddenly found such interest in the bare stretch of railing that he had almost picked clean. “I think you imagine too much of me.”

  
  


“I don't think that's possible.” Gabriel interjected, beaming cutely at his friend. But Peter only sizzled more under the exaggerated perception that Gabriel had of him. It meant so much, and he could never resent it, but it just wasn't entirely truthful. Gabriel didn't know everything about him: he didn't know how many of Peter's actions had almost been catastrophic, all the bad things he had done, the people he had hurt – inadvertently or otherwise. He didn't know that he only technically existed because Peter was responsible for the death of his former self. And even though it was decidedly a good deed... a death was still a death when it came down to it.

  
  


Suddenly it wasn't so carefree and fun up here anymore. The wave of hidden secrets and insecurities was threatening to wash over all at once, weighing heavily in Peter's gut. He had never felt comfortable enough with anyone to talk about private things such as these before... until now. Gabriel was supportive and cosy by his side, and he drew strength from that. “Sometimes...” He shrugged nonchalantly, as if spilling his innermost secrets was no big deal. “...I get myself into stupid situations. I accidentally put other people at risk, just to prove myself. I jump in before thinking things through, I... I'm so desperate to be a hero that I make so many mistakes along the way. Yeah, I _want_ to help people – as much as I can! But it's not always for _them_. ...Sometimes it's for _me_.”

  
  


*

  
  


“That doesn't sound bad.” Gabriel said truthfully, unnerved by the sudden change in Peter's aura and body language. It was only slight, but definite. “You're still doing good things, does it matter _why_ you do them?”

  
  


Peter bobbed his head, hiding behind that curtain of luscious, dark hair. “ _I_ think it does.”

  
  


“But think of all the amazing things you've done. How many lives you've changed for the better.” Gabriel gently urged, slightly worried and beginning to regret starting this conversation. He still wanted to be let into this secret part of Peter (he wanted to know everything there was to know about the guy), and he really felt like he was getting somewhere with this. But if that came at the cost of upsetting his only friend, then he would do without. The only problem was that he suspected they had delved too deep to back out now. “There must be hundreds of people who are only the way they are right now because of you.”

  
  


“Yeah, there probably are. But that doesn't matter to me.” Peter muttered bitterly, busying himself by looking over the railing again. “One, one hundred, one thousand... it'll never be enough. I can't – I can never just...” He took a long breath in through his nose, and let it out slowly. “I always have to keep moving forward. I never feel satisfied with what I do: say I save a woman and her twin babies – great. Then next day, I save a bus load of civilians – brilliant. But the feeling of “yes! I did something good” fades so quickly, and I _have_ to do something else. It doesn't matter how big the deed is – stopping a deadly virus from wiping out the whole world's population, preventing the entire planet from cracking in half, or even just saving an innocent cheerleader from-” His eyes flicked briefly up at Gabriel and he stalled on his words for a moment. “...from something. I never feel... complete?” He sighed again and chucked his handful of rust over the railing, wiping his palm on his jeans. “And I don't think that's ever gonna change.” They both watched the orange particles curl up in the air and away.

  
  


A long silence stretched between them as the wind howled and the city that never sleeps thrived before them. As with everything, Gabriel took his time to decide on the right thing to say next. After all, _he_ had been the one to convince Peter to open up like this. He didn't regret it – he had wanted to know this. But at the same time he longed for the easier, relaxed air they had shared just minutes ago. “I still don't really understand why you feel bad about that.” He said, finally. “You're upset because... you feel selfish saving too many lives?”

  
  


“No, it's not like that-”

  
  


“Then it's because you can't save enough?”

  
  


“Exactly!”

  
  


Gabriel frowned, unsure if he was getting this right. “Why is that so bad? That only says good things about you, Peter.”

  
  


The paramedic didn't answer this time, just toyed with his fingers, interlocking them and unlocking them over and over. He was hiding again, but if Gabriel craned his neck he could spy that pouted bottom lip sitting off kilter. Gingerly, he reached over and took Peter's right hand, holding it steady and stopping his fidgeting while also, he hoped, instilling comfort. The man turned to face him then, surprised by the gentle, unexpected gesture. He didn't pull away, so Gabriel continued on.

  
  


“You say you need to prove yourself? You already have done. You think that anything you do isn't enough? But _it_ _is_.” He swallowed harshly, and hoped his palm wasn't too sweaty. “It is to _me_. You saved my life – and not just by taking me from the police station and giving me a place to stay. You looked after me, helped me understand my abilities, explained bits of my past instead of leaving me to struggle through everything new by myself... you didn't have to do any of that. Nobody else would have. And then you got me my own place, and I worried you might disappear but you didn't. You kept coming back for me. And now this...” He gestured at the open sky above them, the city before them and the road far below. He was sure this was a repeat of a conversation they had already had, but the little man never seemed to listen. “You must have a pretty screwed up idea of what a hero is Peter, cause that sure as hell is heroic to me.”

  
  


*

  
  


It was probably the weight being lifted from saying what he had aloud, or it might have been how embarrassingly aware he had suddenly become of his moping “woe is me” attitude, but Peter suddenly burst into giggles. He shook silently, pressing his forehead to the bar across the top of the railing and feeling his stomach convulse. He was self-conscious of his confession, anxious to have it out in the open, and absolutely stunted in how to reply to Gabriel's words. They were so sweet and tender, the _exact_ thing Peter had yearned to hear from someone his entire life! But now that he finally had, he had no idea how to accept them or what to say in reply. So he just squeezed Gabriel's slightly sweaty hand, and laughed himself out.

  
  


Very patiently, Gabriel waited in silence until Peter started coughing, then straightened back up to lean his elbows on the bar again, gasping for breath. He blinked at Gabriel to clear his streaming eyes, and smiled across at him with as much gratitude as he could muster.

  
  


“Thanks.” Was all he said. It was all he _could_ say.

  
  


*

  
  


“I don't see how that was particularly funny, but you're welcome.” Gabriel said quietly, smiling despite himself. He had intended his monologue as heartfelt and true, and didn't think it was deserving of a giggle fit. But then again Peter always acted weird under praise. At least the man was smiling now, and the mood had considerably been lightened. Even if Gabriel's soulful rendition had been laughed at, it had been laughed at in the best way, and had spawned the desired reaction of cheering up the person it was supposed to.

  
  


Peter cleared his throat. “No, I'm sorry, you're right. That was...” Then he bit his lips as he struggled for the right word. “Lovely. Really. Thank you.” Then Gabriel's hand was encased in both of Peter's, and he was blessed with such a pure, fervent expression of appreciation and acknowledgement. Gabriel knew that look well, but from the other side. It was bizarre to be on the receiving end for once. For a while all they did was stand there and do nothing more than hold hands and smile at each other, alone and forgotten by the rest of the world.

  
  


Gabriel had never once seen Peter look that way, not even from any snatches of old memories... which meant that this was special. This was for him. Here. Now _._ He would have imagined that his morning and afternoon ventures had drained all the pesky _need_ and _hunger_ from his veins, but no – sure enough, that same satin heat began to unfurl inside Gabriel, and more than anything he wanted to be even closer to Peter.

  
  


If Gabriel had been knocked speechless at a rain-covered Peter last night, he was dumbstruck by a moonlight covered Peter who's hair was lightly trailing in the wind just now. The guy was unmistakeably beautiful, body and soul, even with a few day's worth of facial growth and a dusting of coppery rust on his forehead from where he had pressed it to the railing before.

  
  


Gabriel wanted to insist some more that Peter _was_ worth something, and _had_ achieved more than enough! But he couldn't possibly get a word out. He couldn't even breathe. His hand was tingling in Peter's and his head was spinning, and he suddenly felt so very much _alive_ here on top of the city. This man was his idol, his inspiration, his best friend, and Gabriel trusted his advice complicity. Peter's word had never led him astray, so he buried his crippling terror and pretended he was brave the way he aspired to be: as there was no reason to hold back any longer, no reason to hide, and if he didn't jump he'd never know if he could fly, and he wanted so soar tonight... so without any further hesitation, he ducked towards Peter and kissed him.

  
  


It was clumsy, uncoordinated and made awkward by them standing side by side instead of face to face. But Gabriel had just gone for it, closing his eyes and hoping for the best. He felt just the _slightest_ brush of lips against his own, of a cheek against his nose, before all at once it despairingly disappeared.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter gasped and recoiled from the sudden invasion of his space, chest heaving. What the fuck was that?! He hadn't meant to duck away from Gabriel exactly, and perhaps it had been naïve of him, but a kiss was the last thing he had been expecting just then. He backed off a little more, although there wasn't very far to go, and tried to reassess the situation. Wait – a kiss. A _k_ _iss_? From _Gabriel_?! Gabriel _l_ _iked_ him...? What did that mean? What was he supposed to do now...? He didn't even know if he felt similarly for the watchmaker. Of course the thought had occasionally graced his mind over the past few weeks, but did he really, truly, feel the same way in return...?

  
  


Only then did he notice that the man in question had also straightened up from the bars, and had frozen in place with the unmistakeable signs of dread and regret on his face. His wide, terrified eyes tracked Peter's pacing, and all the empath needed was one glance at him to know his answer: yes. Yes he did.

  
  


“I'm sorry!” Gabriel whispered, mortified, by the looks of him. His voice was deep and hoarse, and he had started fretting with the cuffs of his sleeves like a scared child. “I thought... 'take the leap'...”

  
  


“No.” Peter interrupted him, crossing the small platform until he was once again within touching distance of the guy and took hold of both Gabriel's wrists. “Don't apologise.” His heart was thumping painfully fast, and his lips tickled from the earlier too quick, too light stimulation.

  
  


His adrenaline was pumping and as always, his spontaneous, act-first-think-later instinct was close behind. There was probably so much more thought that should have gone into this... but Peter didn't care. He was an emotionally-driven being, and currently there were far too many strong emotions swirling in the air between the two men to ignore.

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel suffered through an agonizing age of worrying and waiting and wondering if he should just fly away or go back in for round two. But all he did was keep quiet, waiting some more, for the other man to talk first. He was absolutely certain that Peter would be able to feel his racing pulse in his wrists (if not actually see his heart thumping through his ribcage).

  
  


But instead of words, Peter just grinned. It was a bright, infectious combination of nerves and excitement that filled Gabriel up instantly. His body quivered all over and he stood perfectly still, unable to believe it as Peter inched forward into his arms, stood on tiptoe and gently, so gently, brought his face to Gabriel's once more.

  
  


This time their lips pressed together fully, tentative and unsure at first, before Peter softly took the lead. Gabriel let him, clueless to the art of kissing and more than happy to just stand here and allow his skin to dissolve from his bones as fire burned him alive from the inside. He practically melted into the smaller man, gripping his waist tightly out of both want to hold him closer and necessity for balance. Peter's fingers threaded softly through Gabriel's hair, cradling the back of his head with one hand while the other nestled snugly around his back, so warm, so gentle. It felt wonderful, amazing to be held like this by another person for the first time – to curl around someone else's body in the closest thing to a hug he had ever known – but of course this was so much better than just a hug could ever be. Who gave a flying fuck about some city skyline?! _This_ was what Gabriel had been missing all along!

  
  


Slowly, both men adjusted to the unfamiliar body in their grasp, swaying slightly and drowning in the taste and feeling of each other. Having no previous experience in this field, Gabriel couldn't be sure, but he suspected that Peter was an amazing kisser. The empathetic man worked tenderly, lovingly, in small repeated motions with smooth lips and a hot tongue, and Gabriel actually worried for a moment that his abilities would go haywire and he would accidentally electrocute them both. But only for a moment. That train of thought was swiftly erased by the tight, scorching body pressed against his, solid and real and _so_ much better than he had ever imagined it would be...

  
  


He felt like he was rising, floating or maybe perhaps literally levitating? It didn't even matter – he was so far gone in this surreal, brand new sensation, running out of air and suffocating but he didn't mind. This was heavenly, the flavour and smell and touch of his willing partner were intoxicating. But just as a tiny, involuntary moan thrummed in Gabriel's throat – Peter squirmed in his arms and was gone.

  
  


Gabriel grabbed after him, dazed and foggy, but reluctant to lose what he now knew he wanted forever. But as he gulped in lungfuls of air and his vision began to clear, his over-worked heart stuttered and he suddenly felt an inch tall. “What is it?” He panted, reaching out blindly for the railing to help him stay standing.

  
  


Peter was pacing again, now rubbing his chin and temples and looking anywhere but at Gabriel. His blood ran cold just looking at him, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know what Peter had to say. “I... I can't. I'm sorry. I just can't.” The flushed-faced paramedic sighed, also heaving for breath, and raked a hand through his hair, making a fist in it.

  
  


All of the amazing, drunk happiness that Gabriel had been bathing in drained away, leaving him empty and hollow in its absence. “Why not?” He whispered, trying not to get emotional. There must be a good reason for this rejection. Pete would never just cast him aside like this for nothing, surely? But his hands were shaking and his chest (still warm from where Peter's had pressed against it) was constricting painfully. So he had jumped... but it turned out he didn't fly after all.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter continued to tread around the small space, suddenly feeling claustrophobic despite being out in the open like this. He finally settled on gripping the railing too, pulling on it as if to rip it clean off the bolts. He couldn't look at Gabriel. He knew what expression would be engraved on his face, and he couldn't handle confronting it. He shouldn't have gone back in like that, it wasn't fair on either man. Not for the first time in his life, Peter cursed his inability to think things over before launching into them. “It's not you.” He said softly, wincing at Gabriel's timid retort.

  
  


“Seriously? 'It's not you, it's me'? I might be new to the world but even _I_ _k_ now that's a bunch of bullshit, Peter.”

  
  


His wounded tone ran through Peter like a blade, and he grasped the railing tighter for support. Understandably, the guy was upset, but that didn't make his pain hurt any less. “But it's true. It _i_ _s_ me.” Could he tell him the truth? Could he explain it properly? He had never said it aloud, although it was hardly a best-kept secret.

  
  


“Well what is 'it' then? Tell me!” Gabriel demanded, and his voice tore off as a little, cracked squeak. Of course the men had had their share of petty arguments and disagreements over the weeks, but this was the first time Peter had ever heard Gabriel truly upset. He hated being the reason for it.

  
  


Peter heaved a deep breath and rubbed his forehead agitatedly. Then was startled to feel speckles of rust, and wiped them away while continuing to use his hand as more cover to hide behind. “It's not that I don't care about you, Gabriel. It's that I care _too much_.” He turned to face off with the man for the first time since he had slid into his embrace so obtusely. Gabriel looked even more dejected and forlorn than Peter had imagined, and his shirt was ruffled and lips pink and still shining. Peter's own were still hot and tingling, and his stomach knotted tightly as a ghost of the kiss ran through him.

  
  


He was emotionally exhausted by this point. Revealing two important insecurities in one night along with making out with an ex-nemesis happened to do that to a person. But it wasn't like he could very well stop now, could he? He owed the guy an explanation, no matter how hard it was to express. After a continued, disgruntled silence Peter steeled himself to elaborate, spilling the truth blindly to get it all out faster.

  
  


“No matter what I do, or how hard I try – I always drive the people I care about away from me.” The words tasted foul in their sincerity, and he struggled to continue past a lump in his throat. “I fall too deep. I get too attached. My emotions always get in the way, and I become... I dunno, overwhelming? Alright? The harder I hold on, the faster they leave, and I don't. Wanna do that. With you.” His voice shook towards the end and he closed his eyes, taking a moment to calm down. It stung to address this ritual he was cursed with, which was why he never spoke of it aloud. Keeping it inside was more of a dull ache that he had sadly learned to deal with, but actually saying the words ripped the wounds wide open all over again. The face of every lost friend and loved one danced before his eyes, driving the knives in only deeper.

  
  


The thought of giving his all to Gabriel (a very easy, inviting prospect), only to be thrown aside yet again would break him. He had come to depend on their relationship maybe even more than Gabriel did – the time spent with him was the only time Peter ever felt validated. Before Baltimore he had been empty and lost, more invisible than when he had physically held the ability. But now he had a purpose, and someone who was always there when he needed them, and who actually seemed to _care_. If he were to lose that comfort now... Peter was pretty sure he would fall apart. “What you said, before?” He frowned, squinting his eyes and putting on a tough stance, as if that would compensate for all the gushy, goopy emotions now pouring out of him and probably smothering Gabriel. “About how I hold back sometimes. You were right. But I can't help it. ...I just don't wanna lose you too.”

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel had said nothing during the entire disclosure, lapping up every word and wanting more and more to cry for Peter, especially as the paramedic seemed to be fighting that urge himself. The acidic burn of rejection after the kiss had dulled slightly now that Gabriel had this insight into who always seemed so put-together and capable. He still felt raw and exposed, vulnerable and damaged, but so did Peter.

  
  


“But you won't lose me.” Gabriel's voice was almost stolen by the wind when it picked up into an untimely gust. He inched closer, but didn't touch the other man again, as much as he still craved it. “Where would I go? Why would I leave you? Who would I choose over you? I don't want anyone else, Peter. I thought that was made obvious when I kissed you.” A tad of unfiltered hurt escaped into his voice, and Gabriel hunched in on himself.

  
  


It _was_ obvious. And they both knew it. And although Peter's insecurity resonated with a faint part of Gabriel, he still couldn't quite relax. He hated this state of unease, but his companion still hadn't fully unwound either. “But there's something else too, isn't there? Something else you haven't told me?” They weren't really questions.

  
  


Peter chewed his lip while he seemed to search for what Gabriel was referring to. The taller man waited intently, watching things whirl and grind away in that lovely head, as was what he was good at. He caught the exact moment when Peter landed on the untold reason. He would have known even without a practised lie-detecting ability to back up his hunch.

  
  


“No.” Peter shook his head, and Gabriel's skull vibrated.

  
  


For the first time, he felt real, true anger well up at Peter Petrelli. He was shattered after touching on such a full range of emotions in such a short time, gutted by Peter's dissuasion of his affections, and now there was dishonesty on top of it all. “Don't lie to me!” He hissed, jabbing a finger at his temple. “Have you forgotten that every time you do my head buzzes?! _Tell me_ the truth!”

  
  


*

  
  


Oh shit. In fact, Peter _had_ forgotten about that. But there was no way to explain himself. He was _not_ going to admit this one. It would be more cruel than saying nothing at all. “Okay, yeah.” He confessed, defeated. There were no other options. “There is something else, but I _can't_ tell you what it is. I won't tell you. All you need to know is that it's _my_ issue, and it has nothing to do with you, Gabriel. I'm telling the truth – go on, check-”

  
  


“I know.” Gabriel snapped. But the lines in his forehead eased slightly.

  
  


It _had_ been true, it wasn't about Gabriel: the other reason Peter couldn't let himself be with the guy was because of Sylar. It felt wrong, disrespectful, to wipe a person from existence and then cosy up with his body in such an intimate way. He just couldn't help thinking of it – those lips were once Sylar's lips. He couldn't un-know what those hands had done, what that mouth had said in the past.

  
  


And what was worse was that Peter _wanted_ Gabriel. He _wanted_ to hold him and touch him and kiss him again, but this was just too big a deal to decide upon now. There were just so many contributing factors to think about. If only he could turn to someone for advice... but there was nobody left to turn to except Gabriel himself.

  
  


*

  
  


“I'm sorry.” Peter pushed his hair back again, a nice, familiar motion that reminded Gabriel how much he hated being annoyed with him. “I didn't plan your first night out to go like this.”

  
  


Gabriel burned, feeling like a hot egg had been cracked over his head. “Don't be sorry. It was my fault. I shouldn't have kissed you.” He mumbled. If he hadn't jumped on Peter then everything would have continued as normal, and they would have likely had a pleasant chat out under the stars before heading back to his place to finally watch their scheduled movie. He hoped that things could return to how they had been, and wished that he hadn't have taken the plunge and ruined that night's sweet gesture. But at the same time... it had felt so _right_ _t_ o be in his arms. How could Peter possibly deny them that?

  
  


“Hey, it was no one's fault. It was just a thing that happened. And I don't regret it.” Gabriel lifted stinging eyes from staring at his boots to see Peter's soft, raised eyebrows. “It doesn't have to change anything.” Gabriel swallowed again (a difficult task recently), and hated that despite Peter's decision and wishes, he still craved everything about the man, craved more than he was willing to give.

  
  


But he said nothing about that, and instead only nodded curtly. At least it wasn't that Peter didn't like him, thank god. And the unknown reason was _not_ about Gabriel – his lie detection helped him to be certain of that. So whatever it _was_ holding Peter back were his own issues, fear of getting too attached and whatever the other part was, and Gabriel had to respect that. He had to be thoughtful. He remembered all the times Peter had put aside what he wanted to keep Gabriel company at home rather than to force him outside before he was ready... this was a similar scenario, with the roles reversed.

  
  


“Do you still wanna watch Die Hard?” Peter asked softly. “Or I don't have to stay, if you'd rather I didn't.”

  
  


“No, no! Stay. Please.” Gabriel gushed, his hand grabbing Peter's forearm of it's own accord. Goosebumps spread from his palm and Gabriel wondered how long it would take before he could forget the sensation of Peter's tongue in his mouth. He hoped a long, long time. If that forbidden kiss was to be their only one, then he intended to remember it in perfect detail forever.

  
  


Both men blushed at the contact, and pretended not to feel awkward as they flew back to Gabriel's apartment in silence.

  
  


***

  
  


Die Hard just happened to be one of Peter's favourite films. But although he was staring at the screen, he wasn't watching a second of it. He didn't think Gabriel was either. The take-out boxes were sitting untouched, and the pair hadn't exchanged one word of commentary like they normally did.

  
  


Peter honestly couldn't concentrate. His heart rate was still up from the first moment Gabriel had leaned in towards him on the bridge. He couldn't help but wonder, now that they were safely back in the familiar comforts of the apartment (he could kind of see the other guy's argument about this place), if he had been too hasty to derail what could be something incredible. It had all happened so fast, and now that he actually thought it over... he felt like he had just made a huge mistake.

  
  


Gabriel was kind, he was trusting, he was reliable. Someone who Peter truly felt deeply for. He wasn't exactly hard on the eye either, and actually had a real interest in Peter for who he _was_ and _not_ only what he could do... these were all traits that the empath had never thought he would find in another person. Yet here they were before him now: compiled and wrapped up beautifully in the man he had spent almost every day with for a month and a half. And it seemed absurd to deny him.

  
  


This didn't simply obliterate his worries of course, but Gabriel had provided a solid argument to the first one: he had said he didn't want anyone else and he wouldn't leave Peter. He yearned so much to accept it. And as for the Sylar part... the guy was dead. Gone. Gabriel was in the driver's seat now, and it wasn't _his_ _f_ ault that the 'vehicle' had been mistreated by it's previous owner. Peter hoped that in time that issue would fade away by itself.

  
  


So now he was trapped by the awkward dilemma of what to do next. Should he pause the film, turn to Gabriel and tell him he'd changed his mind? Should he stick to his initial instincts? Or even wait it out a little longer until he was more confident about his decision? Peter Petrelli was hardly a 'think before you act' man, but this time he really wanted to be sure before jumping into something that could mess with multiple people's emotions so much.

  
  


And most of all, he wanted to fucking talk to his god-damned brother.

  
  


*

  
  


In a way Gabriel was relieved when Peter excused himself to the bathroom one hour and twenty-three minutes into the movie. Because when he was gone Gabriel didn't feel as uptight. He still felt awful for what had transpired that night, and even worse because this whole time he had sat beside Peter wondering if he should just pounce on him again, soothe him and promise that he would never leave him, explain how much he wanted to care for him and how willing he was to prove this...

  
  


He was all caught up in a spectacular mess of desire versus reality, but primarily he wanted to do what was right by his friend. And despite what Peter had said – things _were_ different now. This excruciating hour and twenty-three minutes was proof of that, and Gabriel was petrified that this would become their new reality from now on. He needed to do something to salve the wounds in this relationship, he just didn't know what. So in Peter's absence, he set to work using his original ability to try and understand the inner workings of their dynamic and see how to best fix the wrongs. But people, he soon realised, were a lot more complex than time-pieces.

  
  


*

  
  


He didn't get his hopes up – after all, it wasn't like he actually expected Nathan to pick up now that he needed him most. But Peter called the number anyway and paced around Gabriel's bathroom, insides lurching and hastily preparing an outline of what to say on the off-chance that Nathan _did_ pick up. He half hoped he wouldn't, just so Peter didn't have to explain his conflicted, fucked-up feelings over ex-Sylar to Nathan, who wouldn't understand any of it anyway and was sure to be furious with him when he found out.

  
  


As usual, the line rang. And rang. Peter chewed his thumb. He tried to ignore a quiet jingling sound somewhere nearby and focused all of his efforts on willing his brother to answer his fucking phone this time.

  
  


But then he finally identified the other noise: it was a ringtone. “I Believe I Can Fly”, to be specific, and Peter knew that because he'd heard it a thousand times. It was the personalised ringtone he had set for Nathan's number, and the one Nathan had set for Peter's. It was an inside joke between the Petrelli brothers, and the youngest would recognise it anywhere.

  
  


Frowning, Peter quickly forgot about the call he was making. He set his phone on the edge of the sink and tracked down the source of the ringing. It cut off, but by then Peter had found the bathroom cupboard, and inside the cupboard he found Gabriel's bag of belongings from the Baltimore Police Station, and inside the bag...

  
  


He found Nathan Petrelli's cell phone. With every single one of Peter's many unanswered calls and texts flashing brightly on the screen.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If only things were easy, just this once, huh? :(  
> I hope you enjoyed reading, and please don't be shy to let me know what you think ^.^
> 
> Also, check out these two drawings I did for this chapter over on my Deviantart page, I'd love to know what anyone thinks X)  
> Part 1: http://thefieryeclipse.deviantart.com/art/Beneath-Crimson-Skies-602894931  
> Part 2: http://thefieryeclipse.deviantart.com/art/If-You-Don-t-Jump-You-ll-Never-Know-If-You-Can-Fly-625011342


	9. As I Shatter, Piece By Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After discovering Nathan's cell phone, Peter struggles with the the awful thought that something terrible has happened to his brother...

What the fuck? For a long while Peter did nothing more than blink at the phone, struggling to piece this together. Why was  _ Nathan's  _ phone in  _ Gabriel's  _ apartment...? No, not just apartment, but his bathroom cupboard? And why was it in the Baltimore bag, for that matter – the one that the police had filled with the objects that had been on his person when he had been arrested?

  
  


Suddenly feeling light-headed, Peter stumbled back a few steps until his legs hit something solid. The bath. He shakily sat down on the rim of the tub, gripping it tightly with one hand while his other was still treasuring his brother's misplaced belonging. It didn't mean anything, though. There was no point in getting carried away when this was clearly just a mistake of some kind... right? Yet he couldn't shake the sense of foreboding clawing it's way over his body and digging into his skin. Nathan never let his phone out of his sight. So why would he leave it behind in New York while he cruised the Caribbean...?

  
  


The situation rolled through him slowly, as if sparing him the injustice of having to deal with it all at once. Five seconds, five minutes or maybe five hours could have passed while Peter wavered slightly on the edge of the bath, numbly scrolling through all his own missed messages. Much too slowly it dawned on him that all this time Nathan hadn't been ignoring his calls – in fact he had never even received them. The already cramped bathroom seemed to shrink around the trembling paramedic, and soon he was struggling for breath. As a nurse, he knew he should lie down, or at least sit on the floor so he wouldn't hurt himself much if he passed out. But as a brother, he couldn't possibly move from this spot as his heart was torn from his chest and ripped into pieces.

  
  


What the hell was Gabriel doing with Nathan Petrelli's phone?! When had he obtained it?! Peter tried not to remember that he had last seen Nathan before finding Gabriel, and that he had never even asked Dr Gibson what murders Gabriel had been charged with when he'd gone to collect him... but no. Surely it would have been all over the news by now...?

  
  


Unless someone had crafted a cover story to hide a nasty truth. A cover story, perhaps, like a conveniently timed personal holiday...

  
  


Then Peter was standing before he'd even noticed, and wobbled around the small amount of floor space in a hurried, repeated cycle. By now he was beyond panicking. Terror iced through his veins and he couldn't even see straight – maybe due to spinning in circles, but most likely due to unshed tears. He couldn't think at all, but at the same time his mind wouldn't stop spinning. He didn't want to know, yet he also _screamed_ out for information that he was not privy to.

  
  


He stayed in that tiny box of a room for far too long, as little fragments of his soul tore off and shattered at his feet, piece by piece.

  
  


*

  
  


Twenty six minutes was a long time. Even with explosions and broken glass and a hostage situation to keep Gabriel busy. He had long stopped watching the film, and was now huddled up on the couch, staring at the unresponsive bathroom door and waiting for it to open. He knew exactly why Peter was in there... he was hiding. Hiding from _him_.

  
  


His attempt at trying to work out how to fix up an easy solution had failed miserably, and that disappointment on top of this current silent treatment had built up quite a ball of self-consciousness inside the man. It was worrying that Peter was avoiding him for so long, and if there had been a window in the bathroom Gabriel would have been certain that the guy had escaped through it like they did in his trusted movies. He had panicked briefly, wondering if Peter currently had the ability to teleport or phase through solid objects, before reassuring himself that he had flown back here and not touched anyone since. And flight wouldn't do much good without a window, or super strength to punch his way out of the building... which meant that he was still in there. Only a few metres away with just a thin divide of wood and drywall between them.

  
  


There was no doubt in Gabriel's mind: Peter was still upset about the kiss. Now he regretted it more than ever, and had even entertained the thought of finding a time-traveller, borrowing their ability and going back in time to stop it from happening in the first place. But that would mean exploring the city again, and without Peter beside him he wouldn't dare venture out alone. So the most logical next step was to apologise again, and all he could do was be honest and heartfelt and hope that Peter took pity on him and forgave him soon.

  
  


Yes, it was logical. But that didn't make it any less scary. Gabriel shuffled across the room and stalled for much too long before finally knocking gently on the bathroom door.

  
  


“Pete?” He called out. No reply. “Peter?” He called again, louder this time. Still nothing. Truly worried now, Gabriel twisted the handle and crept into the room, sure that he was about to find the place empty and a Peter-Petrelli-shaped hole in the wall. But instead, what he saw winded him more than simple abandonment could ever have done.

  
  


A pale, sweaty and feverish man looked up at the sudden intrusion. He was curled away against the far wall, twitchy, cold, and so very different to the person Gabriel had come to know and depend on. “Pete!” He gasped, hurrying to his side. “What's wrong?!” Suddenly he feared that he had hugely misjudged the scenario. This seemed like so much more than regret over a stolen joining of lips.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter physically recoiled. Not at Gabriel's concern or attention, but at the use of his nickname. _Nathan's_ nickname for him. It ran through him like ice, and suddenly fury flared up in it's wake. He didn't want Gabriel's care – he wanted some goddamn answers!

  
  


*

  
  


“What the hell is _this_?!” Peter demanded, voice cracking. Gabriel squinted, struggling to focus on the object that was being practically thrust up his nose. Peter's hand was shaking so badly that it took Gabriel a moment to recognise the device.

  
  


“...A cell phone? What's that got to do with-”

  
  


“What. Is it doing. Here?!”

  
  


Intimidated by the unexpected force of Peter's anguish, Gabriel backed away slightly as the little man rounded on him, wielding the phone like a crucifix against a vampire. “It – it kept ringing. The sound was distracting while I worked – so I put it away so it wouldn't be as loud -”

  
  


“You weren't _hiding_ _i_ t from me?! So I wouldn't _find out_?!” Peter's face was pallid, yet blotchy around his eyes as pressure built behind them. There was disdain unlike any Gabriel had seen spilling into those tear-filled, hazel irises, and his damaged, squint lip was somehow threatening now instead of cute. Gabriel's mouth was suddenly very dry. He must have completely missed the incident responsible for this confrontation, because he couldn't make sense of any of it.

  
  


“What? No! Peter! What're you talking abou-”

  
  


Then vice-like fingers squeezed Gabriel's wrist painfully, and he saw that golden light ripple as Peter blatantly stole one of his abilities. “So – what? You're saying it was in your bag for – for _weeks_! But you _didn't know what it was_?!”

  
  


“I've told you – I've never even opened that bag! You _know_ I don't want to know anything about it! Please, tell me what's going on!” Gabriel croaked, his heart pulsating in his throat. He was now backed up against the door, trapped by the fiery little being who was right up in his face. He was almost unrecognisable as the soft, gentle man who laughed in deep little hiccups and smiled with his eyes. Fear and fury had now distorted him into a shaking, enraged mess and Gabriel was unpleasantly reminded of a memory that depicted Peter similarly – they had been in an underground cell of sorts, and the youngest Petrelli had been strangling him, driven by panic and anger then just as he was now.

  
  


The memory was one that Gabriel hated, and barely ever recalled. It frightened him. And he was frightened now. But instead of a life-ending grip around his windpipe, Peter gifted Gabriel with his absence. He backed off, staggering for a moment before catching himself on the sink, facing away. Something had clearly happened to make him act this way – something awful. And whatever it was, Gabriel knew that he was somehow implicated, even though he had no idea what it even was. He ached to comprehend it, to repent in any way.

  
  


“Peter?” He repeated, quieter now. “I don't understand... what's happened?”

  
  


But the empath didn't reply. He just stood there, frozen except for his trembling limbs, raising one hand to cover his face and the other to clutch the phone to his heaving chest. The only sound was his ragged breathing, and Gabriel was stunned into matching silence. He felt wretched: responsible, guilty, and with no idea what to do or say to make things better.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter was sure he was about to throw up. So he kept gulping down air and once again gripped the cool ceramic of the sink so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and leant all his weight on it. Even on the best of days he was never the most gifted at processing complex details, so his half-functioning brain was straining to churn through the mountain of new information that was smothering him now.

  
  


' _It kept ringing... so I put it away'_... all the times he had called Nathan. All the times he had attempted to contact his own flesh and blood, sometimes from only outside Gabriel's front door – mere metres away from the truth... ' _I've never opened that bag'_... had Gabriel really, _not_ known...? Had he been sitting on this for all these weeks and had no idea what secret these walls were harbouring...? Apparently the answer was 'yes'. The ability Peter had taken without consent supported this – as no vibration or tingle had signalled a lie in Gabriel's claim.

  
  


So he pushed that factor away temporarily, and tried to get to grips with the awful insinuation that Nathan's neglected phone presented. It was hardly definitive proof... but somehow Peter knew, just _knew,_ that something terrible had happened to his brother.

  
  


The last time he had seen the senator, he'd been ranting about 'discovering new powers', along with some problem to do with an old high school girlfriend who had been out of their lives for decades now. He had seemed demented, exhausted, frayed at the edges, and Peter hadn't even taken his worries seriously. And when the news broke of the “vacation”, Peter had just assumed it was Nathan's way of running away from his problems to pretend that everything was fine. It wasn't out of character – back when Nathan had discovered that he could fly, he had denied it to everyone (including himself) for months. Peter had just thought this was a similar thing... but now he knew it wasn't.

  
  


How could he have been so blind...?

  
  


“Listen. Again...” Gabriel's timid voice hitched Peter's emotional guards up higher, and he fought to focus on the present moment. “Obviously I've done something wrong. Whatever it is, I'm _s_ _orry. ..._ If this is about what happened on the bridge then -”

  
  


“It's not.” That thought was ludicrous – Peter had actually forgotten all about the kiss. He couldn't believe it had seemed so important just minutes ago. It was irrelevant now, he didn't care about any of that anymore – and even though he knew it was fruitless, he wanted to scream and shout at Gabriel, demand answers that the guy couldn't give him. He wanted to vent these poisonous thoughts and be told that his worries were unfounded and that everything was going to be alright.

  
  


“Then what is it?” Gabriel pleaded.

  
  


Just because it was his only lead, didn't mean it was the right one. Peter had no reason to doubt Gabriel's innocence (in fact he had solid proof to confirm it). He believed that the guy honestly hadn't known about this, and he decided not to tell him about it either. Spilling his apprehension wouldn't help anything. Besides, Peter wasn't strong enough to say the words aloud. Because then it would be real. So he swallowed roughly a few times and blinked his (still somehow miraculously) unshed tears away.

  
  


*

  
  


“It's... it's nothing.” Peter husked unconvincingly, stiffly brushing past Gabriel and stowing both his own and the cursed phone in his pocket. “Lets finish the movie.”

  
  


The watchmaker gaped after his companion, perplexed by his sudden change in attitude. The guy was by no means “better”, but a fight had seemed much more likely than for Peter to conceal his emotions like this and pretend everything was fine when it so clearly wasn't. Gabriel wanted to know the truth of what was going on, but he had discerned that he wasn't allowed to. He wanted to demand that Peter let him in, but he was terrified of only alienating himself more.

  
  


So quickly the foundation of their strong relationship had deteriorated, and now hung weakly on only a few surviving, eroded strings. Gabriel yearned to argue his piece, but instead he silently followed Peter back to the couch and sat beside him for the agonizing remainder of what should have been his favourite time in the world.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter didn't even know why he had stayed and continued their movie night. Maybe it was just the pretence of a familiar act that had seduced him into thinking that if he only pretended that everything was fine, then it really _would_ be. But he was mistaken.

  
  


He sat as still as a statue: desolate, absent, unable to concentrate on anything but the impending sense of dread that was dragging him down to the murky depths. He was still sweating, running hot and cold like a fever, feeling dizzy and ill and his heart wouldn't stop hammering. His pulse pounded in his skull, in his eyeballs, and he sizzled like the muscle memory of Ted's radioactive power searing through him.

  
  


Nathan's phone sat heavy on his thigh, and he couldn't ignore it despite his best efforts. What hurt the most was that, deep inside, Peter had been dreading this. He had been suspicious for a while now, but had tried to smother that instinct because he had been too pre-occupied with Gabriel and work, and selfishly hadn't wanted to stretch himself too thin. So Nathan, his adored big brother, had been cast aside as “not as important” simply because Peter had been irritated with him. He had stupidly hoped that ignoring his bad feeling might prove it to be wrong.

  
  


That knowledge made him sick to his stomach now.

  
  


*

  
  


The entire scene was a set-up: the TV that nobody was watching, the food that nobody was eating, and the two men sitting in a deception of companionship, when really they couldn't even look at each other. Peter had remained perfectly immobile since leaving the bathroom, he hadn't shifted or fidgeted or talked over all the important plot points as he usually did. Normally those habits drove Gabriel mad, but now he missed them dreadfully.

  
  


He had never known this man to be anything less than hyper-aware and receptive to other people, but now he seemed to not even be aware of his surroundings. Gloom seeped out around him, intoxicating Gabriel too and painting the air between them black with so many crossed wires and things unsaid.

  
  


The pair suffered through an unendurable half hour, until the exact moment the end credits started rolling and Peter quickly rose to his feet. Almost instantly, Gabriel stood too and shadowed Peter's footsteps to the door. He wanted to say something clever or encouraging, to beg and plead and make Peter promise that he would come back and that this wasn't the end. But all he did was offer his arm hopefully. “Take flight. It's late, you'll get home faster.” He didn't know which of his abilities Peter had replicated earlier, and an old worry niggled at him – of Peter's safe return home. On good days he would still fret about this, so it was safe to say that tonight the thought of the man travelling through the city alone, at this time of night, in this state, was truly alarming.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter blanched at the proposal, and shook his still spinning head. “No. I'll be fine.” He didn't even want to think about flying. It was too close to heart, too close to Nath...

  
  


So he firmly stuck with lie-detection and left Gabriel's apartment and his dejected expression behind, all the while submerged in a fog of pain and heartache. He trundled across the city on the subway and wandered to his apartment building in a fuzzy, trance-like state. He waited until he had escaped the eyes of every last, late night straggler, climbed the many steps to his apartment and locked the door securely to slump back against the wall. Then, finally, he let himself cry.

  
  


Battered and bruised, Peter's heart finally broke down. He hid his face in his hands and slid down the wall until he was hunched on the empty floor of the empty room, all by himself, gasping and sobbing and aching for his brother with nobody watching, nobody to hide it from, and nobody to make it better.

  
  


  
  


***

  
  


  
  


She was waiting for him. She knew he'd come. She'd already seen it. When he stormed right up to her, and his face was pink and tight the way it had always looked after he cried himself to sleep, nothing else needed to be said.

  
  


“He's dead, isn't he?” Peter sniffled, and she squeezed his shoulders, fighting for the right thing to say. But there was no right thing to say. How could words possibly comfort him? So when his pretty face crumpled, she pulled him into her arms and cradled her son tightly. Everything unresolved between them faded away just then, for today, right now, they were nothing more than mother and son, united by their shared loss and grief.

  
  


Salty tears rolled down Peter's face, and Angela rocked him like she used to when she could still carry him as a child. She rubbed his back, petted his hair, soothing and supporting and just holding onto her baby boy as he withered inside and screamed in silent agony. She even wiped a few of her own tears away, never one to be caught crying. He shook and trembled in her arms and his despair soaked through her cashmere cardigan, dampening her shoulder.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter let himself go – forgetting in that moment how much he should resent this woman, and instead taking solace in just being held for once. He didn't want this. He _needed_ it. Here in his mother's embrace he didn't have to be sensible, collected or in charge. Here, he could relinquish all control and allow himself to be taken care of for a rare moment in his life.

  
  


They were standing in the open front doorway, grieving in full view of the street. Then Peter allowed Angela to gently guide him through the familiar, grand family home and into the office. It was the same as ever: the bright salmon walls, the large bay window at the front of the room, the grand fireplace in the centre... but it felt wrong to stand here now. Peter knew it would never feel the same again. Not without Nathan.

  
  


Still crying, he dabbed at his streaming nose with his sleeve and purposely turned his back on the row of family photographs. He was surprised that he physically still had tears left to shed after weeping all night. He had barely slept at all, and a constant state of alert had kept his senses humming so that every time sleep had threatened to pull him under, the awful, harrowing lurch of what he could never wake up from had hauled him back to this never-ending, bleeding agony. It was mid-morning now, and it had taken this long to compose himself enough to leave the apartment. But despite his best efforts he was crumbling down all over again. “What happened to him, Ma?” Peter finally whimpered.

  
  


Angela stood very close, rubbing her hands up and down his upper arms as if in hopes of instilling strength. She was more tender and caring right then than he could ever remember her being before. This was the type of affection Peter had always craved from his mother... and it was awful that it had taken the death of his elder brother for him to finally attain it.

  
  


After an age of waiting, Angela said her first words that day. “It was Sylar.”

  
  


More hot tears flowed down the tracks of their predecessors, but Peter didn't bother scrubbing them away anymore. More would only fall in their place. Although really, he had already known what she'd had to tell him, it still hurt badly to hear it. “When?” He fought out, struggling for breath.

  
  


He didn't want to know. But at the same time he _had_ to. For Gabriel. He had to know what this meant for the man Peter had almost let himself fall for. To be aware of exactly how long he had been practically living with the guy who had ended his brother's life. He wanted to know how many hours separated Nathan's death and Gabriel's birth... But then Angela's next words knocked him for six, and he was sure he had misheard.

  
  


*

  
  


“At the Stanton Hotel, in Washington.” The truth scratched its way from her throat, rancid after being kept hidden for so long. There was no other way. The time had come for her to stop resisting and to submit at last.

  
  


Peter recoiled, his watering eyes darting all over her face as he let it sink in. “What? No! No, I – I've _spoken_ to Nathan! _Touched_ _h_ im since – just weeks ago!”

  
  


Angela sighed, fussing with his jacket and tidying his hair. She smoothed the long fringe back from his pink, wet face and dried some of his tears. From the outside she looked calm as always and lightly sympathetic, but on the inside remorse was corroding her remaining strength. She was stalling, gathering the courage to say what must be said. This was the part she had been most dreading, because once the words were out she would no longer be on an even plane with Peter – only another victim of this horrific crime committed against them both. This was when she feared she would lose him for good.

  
  


“Oh, sweetheart...” She whispered, with a little tremor to her voice. She cupped her son's face in her hands, holding on tightly, and shook her head while water brimmed on her eyelashes. “That wasn't Nathan.”

  
  


“...Of – of course it was. What d'you _mean_? I _know_ my own brother!”

  
  


“No, dear.” Angela shushed him, wiping away his fresh tear with her manicured thumb. “No.” Was all she said.

  
  


Most people would swear that Angela Petrelli didn't have a heart. And for the most part, that would be arguably true. Even she, herself, was aware of how little it came into play – but the worn, shrivelled remnants of the organ continued to beat occasionally, only for her family. And now Peter was the only remaining piece that she had left.

  
  


She watched this news slide slowly into his consciousness, and confusion burn in it's wake. Then, eventually, accusation and suspicion rose from the ashes. Peter paled, voice deep and choked due to too much crying. “What did you _do_...?” He squirmed out of her grasp, distancing himself from the woman who had given him life as if she was the most despicable thing in the world. And right then, Angela wasn't sure she would have corrected him.

  
  


*

  
  


“Listen to me, Peter. Let me explain-”

  
  


“What did you DO, Ma?!”

  
  


“Please -”

  
  


“I don't want your excuses!” Peter mentally kicked himself for feeling safe here before, even if it had been just for a moment. It didn't make sense: if that hadn't been his brother, then who...? All he knew for sure was that, uncharacteristically, Angela hadn't been lying to him. “Tell me what you did to Nathan!” He yelled, bumping backwards into the desk and toppling the various photographs and trophies that sat atop it.

  
  


Angela stopped in the centre of the room and visibly fought to stitch herself back together. “Nothing. That was the whole problem. I couldn't do anything for Nathan.”

  
  


“Then _who_ was he?! _Where_ is my brother?!” Peter demanded, shaking all over. Angela heaved in a great breath, and he braced himself for his last legs being bowled out from under him. But that didn't protect him from taking the hit and falling just as violently.

  
  


*

  
  


For the first time in Peter's entire life, Angela Petrelli spared him her lies. She made no attempt to manipulate or misdirect him with clever words and half-truths. Instead she admitted everything, every event that had transpired after her two sons had so bravely confronted the infamous serial killer in order to save the world. She told Peter what had happened after he had gone to cut Sylar off from the President, and Nathan had stayed behind in hopes of holding him off for longer. She recounted how she had ran into the trashed hotel room in valiant hopes of saving her firstborn from the fate foretold in a dream, and had been aghast to instead find his dead body... she'd been too late. She included how she had then recruited Matt Parkman to aid in her initial rescue, and how she had forced him to use his ability to salvage her family when Sylar's unconscious form had been carried into the room after Peter had completed his end of the mission. She confessed to the heinous action she had authorized, driven by love and denial, in order to save her precious Nathan.

  
  


*

  
  


He couldn't even look at her while she told him. With every gut-wrenching statement and horrid truth that unfurled from her painted lips, Peter shrank further away from her, his movements slow and muggy as if in a dream. Every second that passed knocked him further down, and he turned away from this woman who he no longer recognised, blinking rapidly and unable to break free of the trance-like spell that her words had wound him into. He had resented her keeping secrets from him for so long, had been adamant that he deserved to know the truths that she didn't want to share with him... but now he longed terribly after the not-knowing. Everything that he thought he knew about his mother was slapped from his pitiful grasp, and every last ounce of naivety was stomped on until nothing survived.

  
  


*

  
  


“I was only trying to preserve my son – it is a mother's right!” Angela pleaded, reaching shaking hands after Peter's frigid form. “Surely you must understand why I did it? I did it for you, for Nathan, for our family!” But when her palms ghosted over his back, he span around, batted her hands away and darted behind the desk to physically put an obstacle between them. The memory of tears still shone on his face, but there was now a previously unseen fire etched into his entire being.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter couldn't believe what he had heard. The incomprehensible words frothed and foamed inside his head, muffling his senses like a concussion of sorts. It was barbaric what she had done. He couldn't even begin to grasp the barest ends of such a hideous act. “How could you possibly try to _justify_ this...?” He breathed, appalled. “What in the hell were you _thinking,_ Ma?! D'you even care how many lives you screwed up?!” Peter rounded on her, sickened just by the sight of her, and he could, at last, see clearly just how far that blackened soul truly ran.

  
  


It was too late now, every last shred of hope that had tethered him to this woman until that moment had finally been severed. Now Peter was set adrift, alone and lost and drowning in an endless sea of treachery and deceit and reprehensible actions.

  
  


He couldn't make sense of it all... Nathan... what about his sons? What about his friends? Nathan Petrelli had been gone for months now, and nobody seemed bothered that an imposter had been living in his place! And what about Gabriel...? That was another stab to Peter's already tattered heart. So all the little quirks, the memories he shouldn't have, the familiarities that Peter had trusted...? And now.. now he knew why Gabriel had remembered _his_ name above all else in the whole entire world after coming to life in a new, recently vacated body...

  
  


“What happened to... Nathan? This time. How did he just disappear?” Peter croaked, fisting his hands so tightly that his short nails pierced his palms.

  
  


There was a nasty silence while Angela decided whether or not to answer him. “I don't know.” She said eventually, and Peter would have pushed it further if he hadn't believed her ignorance. For the first time since discovering that phone last night, his thoughts were centred on someone other than his loved, lost brother. And Angela, it seemed, was well aware of that fact.

  
  


“Why should you care about that man, Peter? He was collateral damage – it was him or Nathan! I had a choice to make, I made one. Losing a killer is _not_ a loss and nobody will argue with that!”

  
  


“This isn't about Sylar!” He yelled, punching the surface of the desk. Angela flinched in fright and his knuckles groaned in complaint, damaged to match every other part of him, but he didn't even care. His patience had finally hit the limit, and the fog was slowly clearing. This _wasn't_ about Sylar. That unimaginable monster could rot in hell a thousand times over and it wouldn't be punishment enough. But as for the separate entity of him, the fragment that had been left behind...? This time Peter wouldn't push his feelings inward and avoid the confrontation in order not to upset Angela – this time he would race to meet it head-on.

  
  


“All this time... you let me believe I was talking to Nathan! _Hugging_ him?! _Loving_ him?! You let me _miss_ him! Run around after him, thinking he was away on some bullshit vacation...!” More words failed Peter then, and he fisted both hands in his hair for what must have been the millionth time in less than twenty hours. It was bad enough to have lost a loved one, his most beloved, but now he also had to grapple with the knowledge that it had happened months ago... and he hadn't even noticed. How could something as huge as this have transpired and he hadn't felt it? How had he not known that it was someone else wearing Nathan's face for so long...?

  
  


So the last time he had truly set eyes on his brother was in Washington. When they had marched down the hall, united at last, stronger together than they were apart and drawing courage from each other's presence. ' _I love you, Pete. You know that?' 'Course. I love you too, Nathan...'_  Which meant that every single interaction they had shared since then had been false. Every single word a lie. Every smile a mask. But Peter had also seen the man beneath the facade: he had looked into the real face, swam in the depths of those eyes... and had been painfully oblivious to the truth for every single, wonderful second of it.

  
  


This time, when he finally recovered his voice, he didn't shout or yell. This time, he could barely strangle the words out. “You let me care. About the guy who did this.”

  
  


“No!” Angela blurted, looking like a desperate, elderly woman for the first time in Peter's eyes. Until now she had always seemed so solid and superior, but at last his rose-tinted glasses had shattered beyond repair. “You said so yourself – the man he is now is _not_ Sylar!”

  
  


It didn't matter if that was technically true or not. Although Gabriel, his friend, was innocent... he was also ruined now. His body, if not his actions, was tainted. And Peter... Peter had kissed the lips of the man who had murdered his brother. Knowing what he did now, how could he ever forgive himself? How could he ever look at Gabriel the same way?

  
  


*

  
  


Angela nervously twiddled her many rings as she watched Peter sway dizzily on the spot. He looked like he was about to faint, but scurried even further back when she tried to approach him again. “You lied.” He ground out through gritted teeth. “To me. You lied to Nathan. He didn't know what was happening to him – he was _scared_ of it!”

  
  


“No, that wasn't Nath-” But her hurried explanation was cut off when Peter punched the desk again, sending another photo frame falling to the floor. When he raised his hand to press it over his face, blood trickled from his split knuckles.

  
  


Very rarely did Angela get herself into a situation she couldn't get herself out of, but this was one of those times. There was no escape, no excuse, no way to blackmail or bargain her release. She realised now that her decision in Washington had been the wrong one, but how had she meant to know that then? Regret was futile and she had already accepted that she would have to live with the consequences. What hurt the most, however, was watching her youngest son deteriorate right before her eyes – and not only being responsible for it – but being helpless to stop it. Peter was lost, half a person now that a monumental part of himself had been ripped clean off.

  
  


“I didn't know what else to do. I was just trying to save him.” She said, defeated, arms dangling ungracefully at her sides and not at all posed in her usual dignified stance. “This was _exactly_ what I had hoped to spare you from, dear.”

  
  


*

  
  


Well she hadn't. Not only had she sliced him apart by the loss of Nathan, but the added loss of Gabriel rotted away at Peter too. There was no way he could look at him again. Although Peter knew that the guy had been dragged into this just as unwittingly as he himself had, it didn't make it any easier to forget what those hands were responsible for. And so he mourned, also, for the blissful, brief time they had shared before everything had been ruined. Angela's words from their last meeting haunted Peter now... ' _it'll only end in heartbreak_ '...

  
  


“What about Gabriel?” He whispered. Just the prospect of what he now would never be able to have drained the fight from him, leaving him even more of a hollow man, more vulnerable than ever.

  
  


“What about him?”

  
  


“What do I... what am I gonna tell him?” He wasn't really asking for Angela's opinion, so it didn't matter that she never replied. The missing chunk of him that used to belong to Nathan stung and steamed around naked edges, as did another, that used to belong to Gabriel. Now Peter was only one tiny fragment of a person, because he was nothing without his people to care for. And he knew, no matter how much it ravaged him... he couldn't return to the only remaining living person that he wanted.

  
  


Deafened by the rushing of his own blood, and blinded by the searing intensity of his own emotions, Peter stood and trembled while his feelings all fought for importance. Unsurprisingly, sorrow won out, and he dropped his itching eyes to the ground. One of the photo frames had broken nearby, casting a spidery web across the picture. It was his mother's favourite photo of her two sons – side by side in complimenting suits with arms around each other. The crack had fractured the glass between the brothers' smiling faces, dividing them with severe, harsh lines.

  
  


It was all too much, and there was nowhere left to fall because Peter had already hit rock bottom. He couldn't make himself concentrate properly, or take the time to work out a proper plan in hopes of undoing this terrible wrong. The rest of the world was pressing in, but none of that mattered because his brother had been murdered and the guy who had done it had gotten away with it without paying for his deplorable actions! Peter wanted to explode from the unfairness of it all: he spent his entire life making sure everyone else was happy – didn't he deserve a piece of that too? Was fate just that unkind...? Had this been his destiny all along? 'Destiny' – the wise, all-powerful leader that Peter had faithfully trusted for years...

  
  


It had finally reached the stage where he couldn't process any more. His stomach was convulsing and his head was blocked and heavy from all the crying and overload of information. He felt beaten by it all, and could very well have sank to the floor and curled in on himself, giving up completely and cried into eternity until he ran dry.

  
  


But that wouldn't be doing right by Nathan. The only person who was going to tackle this injustice was Peter – as nobody else cared about the dead Senator, nobody even _knew_ he was gone! A human being had been wiped from this planet and hadn't even been granted the courtesy of a farewell. Even the psycho-murderer had been dignified with a cremation, yet Nathan got nothing at all? It was horrific, and Peter still couldn't quite believe it. His love for his brother still shone as brightly as ever, maybe even more so now, and as long as that persisted into the ends of time, Peter would fight to honour his memory.

  
  


*

  
  


Although feeling agitated and very small, Angela was more than practised when it came to hiding one's feelings. She briskly neatened her hair and cardigan (with the tear stain still on the shoulder), and tiptoed closer until she approached the opposite end of the desk from Peter.

  
  


She lifted Nathan's graduation photo and ran her polished fingers over the glass the way she used to touch his cheek. True, the event that had transpired in the Stanton Hotel to bring them to this moment had been illicit, but it had been conceived in an act of love. And this was from a woman who found that emotion very difficult to show even sparingly. So as for Peter, her gorgeous boy who positively leaked the stuff from his very pores (and who had an unfortunate habit of allowing his heart to lead him into trouble), there was no telling what new disaster he could kick-start due to this heartbreak.

  
  


The passing weeks between their two visits had been heavily punctuated with more of those same, tormenting dreams of Peter and Sylar, and now Angela was more terrorized by them than ever. Whatever Peter intended to do about his dearest _Gabriel_ , she knew that his correspondence with the man Sylar was far from over. But Angela Petrelli never went down without a fight.

  
  


It took three attempts before her voice unlocked in her throat. “I know you're upset, and you have every right to be. I don't blame you for hating me, Peter, but please don't do anything foolish because of this. Sylar is gone for good, it's over now.” She coaxed with the tone of finishing a long story, intending to put this whole dreadful business to rest.

  
  


But then Peter hitched in a little breath, and his gaze snapped up from the ground and bore into hers with such passion that Angela already knew that the game was somehow up, although she couldn't understand why.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter gaped at her, letting the dreaded name and the accompanying buzz bounce around his nerve endings. It was more than just prickling hatred towards the guy. “Sylar is _alive_...?!” He gasped incredulously, allowing the tingle of her lie to settle and fade. “I thought you said that he was _gone_? _Dead_?” He insisted, pressing her for answers that would give him what he needed despite what line she chose to spin him.

  
  


“He is!” Angela said too quickly, but once again the deception sent alarms ringing in Peter's skull. And now he had a driving purpose – a way to compensate for his uselessness in protecting Nathan. He might have been ready to give up on himself, but there was no way he was ready to give up on his brother!

  
  


*

  
  


“Where is he?!” Peter demanded, hurrying over the short distance and gripping Angela's shoulders a little too tightly. But it wasn't out of anger at her, she knew that much. This was a young man possessed, intoxicated by a desire that would only lead to his eventual downfall. Angela kept her lips firmly closed, refusing to accidentally spill any more information that he could work with. Just because she would be honest with him about Nathan's death and her part to play in the cover-up didn't mean she would willingly send her child off to something so dangerous.

  
  


“Where is Sylar?!” He repeated, eyes wide and eyelashes still wet.

  
  


“I don't know.” She sniffed haughtily.

  
  


“And _I_ have an ability to know when you're lying! So don't even try it. _Tell me_ where he is.”

  
  


Stupidly, she hadn't planned on the interference of that particular power. It seemed that yet another of her countless past misdeeds had come back around to bite her. “No, Peter.” She scolded him with every ounce of control she could muster, putting him in back his place and attempting to return to her rightful one as leader. “Do you really think, that after everything I've been through to keep what's left of our family _together_ , I would ever do anything that might put it at risk?”

  
  


But Peter's fingers tightened briefly, an invigorated squeeze. And although his voice was low and gentle, it was packed with more chilling promise than any of his shouts had been. “I'm gonna hunt him down, Ma. One way or another. I'm gonna make him pay for what he did to Nathan. And if you don't tell me where he is, I'll never stop until I find him.” There was no denying his sincerity, and Angela's facade cracked all over again. She knew how pointless it was to fight her visions, yet it never stopped her from trying. But in the end, she always lost. “...You said that everything you did, everything that _h_ _appened_ , was for your family's best interest. And _I_ _a_ m that family. You tried to protect me from all this, and look where it got us... well help me _now_. Can't you just do this one thing for me?”

  
  


Angela's eyes roved over this young man slowly, absorbing everything that there was to see. He looked like her: the same colouring and wide eyes, and the exact same resolve that she possessed was coiling through him now, although channelled for much purer reasons than she had chosen over the course of her life. Somehow he still embodied his adolescent sense of delicacy and youth despite approaching thirty, but at the same time Angela had rarely seen such hardy determination and drive in another human being. It was the one characteristic that Peter had fully inherited from his parents. And she knew as well as she knew herself: Peter _would_ never stop until he found his target – she would never be able to dissuade him.

  
  


As she had often noted: Peter put his all into every fight... and Sylar had no idea what blazing little ball of hatred and violence was soon headed his way.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter's pulse throbbed through his veins, bringing him back to life again now that rage was fuelling his fire. There was hope! There was action! Screaming agony and the desire to get moving started to build and inflate inside of him, forming into one blessed, mindless action: revenge. He had meant what he'd said: if Angela once again chose to leave him dissatisfied, he would find his brother's killer another way. Whatever it took, no matter how long! But he urged his mother to help him out, just this once. It was the least she could do for him.

  
  


“...Parkman. He's with Parkman.”

  
  


*

  
  


Angela exhaled a great sigh, toying with her rings again. She didn't look at him while she signed away his well-being, and didn't try to stop him leaving, as much as she yearned to. Without even uttering another word, Angela's youngest child dropped his hold on her and literally ran from the office. He left her behind, alone and haunted, and didn't look back, driven such as he was by this doomed purpose.

  
  


She turned to watch him sprint across the cavernous hall the way he used to years ago, when playing one of his superhero games with an imaginary baddie and a pillowcase as a cape. Never really having been a particularly maternal woman, Angela rarely missed those childhood years, but now the memories tore through her. She wished that it could be so simple again: that Peter was only a pretend super-powered hero, and that the villain he was now running to confront was as harmless and inconsequential as thin air.

  
  


*

  
  


For once, Peter didn't try to tidy away the scattered debris of this fight, or smooth the edges back into place of this rickety facade of a relationship. He didn't fake a smile and kiss his mother's cheek to keep her from being upset at him for being so selfish and having emotions of his own, god forbid. He had never left Angela's company in such an openly incomplete state, but her feelings were the last thing on his mind right then.

  
  


Instead he pelted out the wrought iron and glass door and onto the busy, bustling street that had the nerve to act as though nothing monumental was happening here. People stared at his haste, but he ignored them. Now that he had a mission, had someone to protect, there would be no swaying him from this path. All was not over, and Nathan was never truly lost. He would live as long as Peter avenged him, and he was far from finished yet.

  
  


It didn't matter to him that he was, once again, running blindly into a fight with this same, damned man who he was in no way equipped to handle. He didn't spare a thought to anyone else, not even himself, or the questionable event of his return. What mattered was that he was going to make that monstrous son of a bitch sorry... even if he died trying.

  
  


  
  


***

  
  


  
  


The subway journey home dragged compared to the speed and freedom of flight, but Peter's enthusiasm hadn't wavered an inch by the time he got home. He was just as determined as ever when he leapt up the stairs of his apartment building, intending only to grab his wallet (having left the place with only loose change in his haste that morning) and enough money to catch the next flight out to Los Angeles. He was so caught up in visions of blood and justice that he didn't notice the figure huddled outside his front door, not even when the man hastily untangled his long limbs and stood as he approached.

  
  


“Peter!” It was almost an accusation, the voice thick and strained.

  
  


Peter stumbled over his own feet, caught off-guard and roughly dragged out of his tunnel-vision. He looked wildly around himself, and was stunted to see the last thing he had ever expected to encounter in the hallway outside his door: it was the same face he had been punching in his mind's eye... the very person he was so intent on ending. At first another wave of anger flared up, and Peter prepared to fight to the death here and now... but then recognition crept over and he recovered himself, picking up all the dropped pieces of his soul.

  
  


He swallowed the bile and guilt that was bubbling away in an inferno inside him, and forced his voice steady. “Gabriel.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Sorry for the delay, but I wanted this one to be a long update ^.^ I really hope the wait was worth it and that you enjoyed reading!


	10. You and Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter doesn't expect Gabriel to understand – but he HAS to do this...

A long, tense silence expanded around the narrow hallway while the two men just stood staring at each other. Gabriel wanted to speak so badly, but he was scared to even utter one syllable because Peter looked like he was on the verge of turning and running away at the slightest provocation. He had a distinctly guilty, caught-in-the-headlights air around him, and it took a full twenty seconds before he seemed to recover himself and severed their eye contact.

  
  


If the delayed, frosty response hadn't been enough of an indicator, the shield practically building themselves around the man in front of Gabriel's eyes was... he was clearly still upset. Which crumpled and killed the fragile optimism that Gabriel had spent all night and morning crafting.

  
  


Peter cleared his throat and shuffled forward (taking a wide berth of this clearly unwanted intruder) to fumble with the lock on the door. “What're you doing here?” He asked curtly. The key missed the lock four times due to Peter's hand shaking uncontrollably, and he looked painfully similar to the way he had back at the very beginning, when every move Gabriel made had rolled fear and distrust through the man.

  
  


The unease floating his way sucked all the air out of the watchmaker's body. “I...” He squeaked pitifully, then tried again, feeling even more hopeless and embarrassed. What had he been thinking? Braving the expanse of the noisy, smelly, cramped city to come over here? Of course things wouldn't have magically fixed themselves overnight, no matter how many times he had wished for it. “I was worried about you. After last night... I wanted to know you were okay.” Somehow his voice held steady, but his whole body was balanced on the precipice of action – whether to curl into a ball or wrap himself around Peter, he wasn't quite sure, but grovelling would be heavily involved in either outcome.

  
  


“I'm fine.” Finally the key snicked in the lock, and Peter disappeared into the apartment without looking back. The door swung on it's hinges but didn't fully close, and so Gabriel generously took that to not be a full dismissal.

  
  


“No you're not.” He said sadly, sliding through the gap and inviting himself into Peter's home. The place had never seemed as cold and hostile as it did just then, because Gabriel knew he wasn't welcome. Even if he still didn't know the fucking reason why. He lingered by the door and watched his only friend float aimlessly around the place as if he couldn't decide on which piece of empty floor to stand on.

  
  


*

  
  


Pacing past the couch, over to the window, by the patio doors and past the couch again, Peter waited, extremely badly. He was all hyped up and ready to go _now,_ but he knew it would be best to get rid of Gabriel before revealing his plan to leave town. The guy would only try to stop him. And Peter didn't think he was strong enough to have to break him.

  
  


He had to physically fight to keep his eyes off that face. Every part of him itched to peek – as if it were something wonderfully forbidden, appealing in it's taboo – but it was out of fear, not excitement, and he kept his gaze firmly cast down. He worried that he wouldn't recognise his friend inside that hateful shell of a beast. He didn't want to taint all of their precious, shared moments by erasing them with these ones, when his friend Gabriel wasn't just his friend Gabriel anymore.

  
  


“You're going to do something dangerous.” Gabriel said, and Peter was suddenly very aware of his cracked and bloody knuckles, so hid the offending hand from Gabriel's line of sight.

  
  


That last statement (not a question, a statement), had stopped him in his tracks. He gripped the back of the couch, digging his nails in and staring deliberately out of the window and into the rest of the oblivious city. “I dunno what you're talking about.” The avoidance was pathetic even to his own ears, but he couldn't muster up enough effort to make it sound more convincing. It was all he could do not to scream out at the top of his lungs, but to instead keep his tone at an almost normal level.

  
  


“I know that look.” Gabriel murmured from behind him, and Peter's stomach clenched involuntarily. “It's the way you look every time before you get yourself into trouble.”

  
  


And all at once Peter was blinded by rage, demented by the pain of his loss all over again. Everything that he now knew, everything Angela had told him, echoed around his pounding head. Now he got it, _now_ he understood. All the little things that hadn't made sense, yet Peter had chosen to ignore or excuse... ' _Pete_ '... ' _I remembered you liked these_ ' ... ' _I know that look_ '... They were bits of his brother. The only remaining aspects of him on the planet.

  
  


“Oh yeah? And how would you know that?” He demanded, tightening his grip on the couch even tighter, frowning at the window. “You _remember_ it, right? Through more of those memories that you don't recognise...?!” His eyeballs stung viscously then, but he didn't want to shed any more tears. Not when there was something that could be done – not to fix things – but to at least neaten the way the cards had fallen.

  
  


The taller man stiffened behind Peter, crossing his arms and furrowing those great, black brows. “I don't understand...?”

  
  


“No! Of _course_ you don't!” The paramedic spat, storming away into his bedroom in search of his wallet. Secrecy be damned – he was going to confront Nathan's killer, and he was going to do it now. Gabriel could try to stop him if he wanted. It would make no difference, he told himself furiously.

  
  


*

  
  


Like a trained dog, Gabriel trailed behind in Peter's wake, blocking the doorway to his bedroom while the guy rummaged around a pile of clothes on the floor, apparently searching for something. “Please, tell me what happened. I want to help you – or at the very least know what I did wrong.” He tried not to whine, and to filter out the anxiety from his voice, but succeeded in neither.

  
  


“You can't help me.” Peter huffed, scrabbling madly around the clothes before coming up short, swearing to himself and kicking the pile away. He then set to work stripping the bedsheets off his mattress and searching through them roughly.

  
  


Starting at his toes and steadily making its way up Gabriel's body, his nerve endings seemed to be dying off, one by one, leaving him void of bodily sensation and tethered only by the straining organ pumping blood through his veins. He had to cling to the patio doors to maintain a sense of balance. The amazing dream come true that he had _almost_ reached last night was now slipping from his desperate grasp, and he could do nothing but stand and watch it happen. “Let me try, it's the least I can do-”

  
  


“You can't _d_ _o_ anything! _Just leave me alone!_ ” The false calmness had fully evaporated, and Peter truly yelled for the first time. His anguished cry faded, swallowed up in the sirens and car horns on the street far below, but the sound would rattle through Gabriel's mind for eternity.

  
  


He had stopped his fruitless searching to catch his breath, hands twisting into fists by his sides. For a second Gabriel really thought he was going to get punched by this man who he had never imagined would be capable of inflicting him pain (at least physical pain – his feelings had never been so abused), but then Peter ducked under Gabriel's arm and stalked off to the kitchen. Steam was practically visible rising from him, but his next words were swaddled in more controlled self-restraint. “Just go home, Gabriel.

  
  


“'Go home'?!” Gabriel wailed, deeply wounded by this undeserved wrath and hostility. He tripped after the little man again, throwing his arms out to the side and unable to believe what he was hearing. “I crossed the city for you! _Alone_! I _flew_ all the way over – because I care about you, Peter! And now you just expect me to crawl away and let you go on this... mission? Quest? Whatever the hell it is?! You're not yourself – you can't be thinking straight!” Rage coursed through him: was _this_ really the same man who only last night had gushed so sweetly about how he got high off of making people _happy_?! How such a tiny act as a smile can make someone's day?! Yet here he was, crushing Gabriel's heart as if he was nothing more than a needy, clingy irritation.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter wished that Gabriel's distress hadn't run him through the way it did. He recognised what a huge step the guy had taken to make his way here, but what should have felt like a huge victory now stung like venom. Peter had already faced more than enough recent afflictions to break him apart, he didn't need this one as well. Which was why he had hoped to leave without a goodbye in the first place.

  
  


Perhaps this was for the best, though? Although he had absolutely no clue how he would begin to explain what had happened, admit what a huge part of Gabriel's past he had kept from him all this time, and confess his current objective, he knew the right thing would be to just be honest. His pristine, shiny moral compass pointed to that decision, and even just yesterday if this had happened to someone else, Peter would have stuck to his old ideals.

  
  


But it hadn't happened to someone else, and it was all too much for this one man to handle at once. So Peter chickened out... he couldn't tell Gabriel anything. Already he was sapping the fervour out of Peter, the vengeful passion that he had worked himself into at the mansion... but he couldn't let that happen. Staying behind longer to fill Gabriel in on the details would fracture his armour for sure, and he would never forgive himself if he backed out of this and let the devil run free. Nathan needed him. _Nathan_ needed his resolve to stay strong.

  
  


So Peter fought back his betraying expression and composed his face before turning around, still not quite meeting those inkwell eyes. “Actually, now that you're here...” He crossed the short distance between them, reaching out a tentative hand towards Gabriel's forearm. The man held his breath slightly, and twitched just enough that Peter knew he wanted to reach back. “I need to borrow flight.” Peter tried not to think that it _had_ been Nathan's ability all along, and he had been using it on and off for weeks without any idea who it had been stolen from.

  
  


Gabriel shrank away, sounding more wounded than ever. “No!” Peter pulled his hand back, pressing it to his own thigh in a weak attempt to hide the tremors running through his whole body. “I won't help you do this!” Affronted, the man glared down at Peter, who could feel the heat of that gaze searing through him.

  
  


Peter chewed his quivering lip firmly, forcing it steady, and nodded. He wouldn't fight over this. So returned to the kitchen and started scouring through the drawers. He couldn't remember where he'd put his wallet, and had a sneaking (unjustified) suspicion that maybe Gabriel had somehow hid it from him in an attempt to keep him from going. But he wouldn't ask, because even if it were true, there was no way the guy was likely to tell him where he had put it. So Peter continued to search wildly, absorbing the full brunt of Gabriel's pleading in perfect, painful detail, but he refused to let it deter him.

  
  


*

  
  


“Don't go, Peter.” Gabriel begged, haunting him around the kitchen and shamelessly letting his fears spill from his lips. More of his hopes and dreams faded and died with each passing second, stretched to eternity due to the stubborn silence on Peter's part. “Please – you're just upset! Think this through! What if you get hurt? What if... what if you don't come back? I don't know what I'd do without you – I don't want you to go!”

  
  


Here he was, opening up his heart only to be forcefully ignored by his trusted recipient. Right then Gabriel almost found himself hating the little man: he couldn't understand how he could be so cold after only ever being nothing but unfaltering warmth until now, and he couldn't comprehend how such a bastard could still look like such an angel. An angel who appeared as murderous as Gabriel had ever seen him, with his own eyes or not. The only time that came close was that same prison cell memory: when Peter had had nothing but deadly hunger in his eyes and hatred in his choking grip.

  
  


Then slowly, the idea formed in Gabriel's patchwork-quilt of a mind, expanding like a bubble being blown. “This is about – about that thing you wouldn't tell me back on the bridge. Isn't it? It _is_ me... something I've done... Something I _did_... before?” He knew it was true the moment it slimed off his tongue, and Gabriel felt nausea wash over him strongly. It made sense... whatever he had done as his old self, as the person who Peter had hated enough to try to kill with his bare hands, must have been bad enough to hold the man back from trusting him fully now. The sin he had committed must have been horrendous in order to have chewed up and spat out kind and caring Peter Petrelli in such a mangled state, as he was now.

  
  


Paranoia kicked Gabriel's intelligent brain into hyper-drive, and he started thinking of any and all things that could have been his fault. It didn't take long before he came to the conclusion of the cell phone from last night. He shouldn't have had it. But somehow he did. It was a dark spot, itchy on his conscience, that went uncomfortably well with the sore, scabbed guilt that grew heavier every time Peter mentioned his beloved brother. It was an issue that Gabriel had been too frightened to touch on. Over these weeks the nasty feeling had only grown, and in fear of losing Peter to it, he had selfishly ignored a problem he knew had been there all along.

  
  


“I did something... awful. Didn't I?”

  
  


Still Peter didn't reply, although his face was flushed and Gabriel could feel heat radiating off him from inches away. The guy was demented. He was terrifying. And still he wouldn't give Gabriel the courtesy of looking at him while he ripped him open this way.

  
  


At last Peter seemed to find what he was looking for – he recovered his wallet from where it had evidentially been kicked under the kitchen counter, and immediately made as if to push past Gabriel and disappear from his life forever without even a parting glance. Gabriel's self-pity and remorse had reached breaking point, and all he knew was the absolute certainty that he wasn't about to just let himself be dismissed like this.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter tried not to brush the taller man as he passed, but then a hand whipped out with lightening fast reflexes and clamped fingers tightly around his arm. “ _Look at me!_ ” Gabriel snarled out a rusty whine... and finally, unable to ignore such pitiful vulnerability any longer, Peter relented and did.

  
  


Humiliation, pain and fear had distorted that face into a fearsome, oh-so-familiar mask. One that ran shivers straight through the empath, and he almost broke down right there all over again. He remembered only too well facing off against that expression so many times over the years. And he also remembered, only too clearly, the taste and feel of those plush lips caressing over and against his own. Years of a sensible mentality being drilled into him was now competing with merely weeks worth of foolish, hopeful dreaming that had carried him away, and now this little Petrelli-shaped smelting pot of remorse and empathy was overflowing and going into meltdown.

  
  


Peter was vividly reminded of his foolish optimism upon recovering Gabriel at the police station and taking him home. Yes, he had been nervous of the guy, but he had also vowed to help him become a better man – a goal that Gabriel himself had agreed to. Peter had wanted a fresh start for this empty cavern of a person – a new life – filled with companionship and comfort in the shape of himself as a supportive friend. He had promised to help the broken man, and to find out what had happened to revert him to a clean slate. Well now he knew the truth, but there was no way to uphold the first end of the deal... he couldn't help Gabriel. Not now, not ever, and leaving him to ferment for all this time in a musky apartment filled with books and watches and god knows what other secrets and lies had certainly not been “helping”. He saw that now. It had all been nothing more than a pipe dream between two naïve, lonely men.

  
  


Goosebumps erupted from the other person's touch, and Peter peeled pink fingers off his arm, sickened by every continued second of contact. That hand... that hand had ended his brother's life with one flick of the wrist.

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel allowed Peter to free himself from his, apparently, repulsive and contagious touch. He watched the blurry figure of his former-companion through tearful eyes, saw him rock back on his heels, putting only more space between them. This was it, he was going to lose him for good, and there was no fighting it. But Peter didn't evaporate into thin air, knock him over or jump past him as Gabriel had expected, instead he stared openly into his eyes, and there was an unmistakeable glint of sorrow and sympathy in there. Which only hurt more because Peter _did_ feel bad for what he was doing, yet still he chose to do it.

  
  


“This isn't about you and me, Gabriel.” Peter said clearly, voice coated with repressed anguish and shame. “I don't expect you to understand – but I _have_ to do this.”

  
  


Desperate for any speck of comfort, Gabriel's hands once again reached for Peter by themselves, but the empath only recoiled as if burnt. “You don't always have to be a hero, Peter.” The ex-killer breathed, blinking wet eyes forcefully to clear them. His tone was harsh, brutal to compensate for his oozing weakness. “You said so yourself: you jump into stupid situations just to prove yourself over and over again. But nobody even cares what you do or don't do, nobody remembers, so why do you keep trying?! That's what this is now, isn't it? Another attempt to be the saviour in hopes of finally earning some praise from people who don't even deserve your efforts?!”

  
  


Peter's brow dimpled in a faint frown, and Gabriel knew he had hurt him. Then the paramedic's nose wrinkled and he leaned up close to Gabriel's face, grating roughly. “You're wrong. This isn't about _me_.”

  
  


Now that he was finally so near, Gabriel wanted nothing more than to get away from Peter. Up close it was even more obvious due to his bloodshot eyes and puffy eyelids that he had previously been crying. Crying over some heinous action that was all Gabriel's fault, one that he wasn't even allowed to know about because – clearly – he wasn't important enough for such an honour.

  
  


So he roughly pushed the little man away, knocking him off balance slightly before the guy caught himself on the kitchen counter. “Exactly!” Gabriel scoffed. “It never _is_ about you. It's always about someone else – someone else who matters more than you do, or has to be protected or rescued, despite what happens to you in the process! …But what about _me_? _I_ need you. Do _I_ not matter?!”

  
  


Again, there was nothing for a moment except the faint city noises floating through the window. Gabriel breathed heavily through his nose, nostrils flaring, and waited for an answer he wasn't even sure was coming. He towered over Peter, no further than a metre away, and his keen eyes picked up every twitch of that goddam little mouth as it bit back the words that Gabriel needed to hear.

  
  


*

  
  


Finally, Peter allowed himself to free just a tiny whisper, gentle enough that his constricted throat wasn't an issue. “Someone else matters. And he needs me more.” He heaved in a deep sigh. "...I'm sorry.” He closed his eyes to protect himself from witnessing Gabriel's shattered expression, but he caught it anyway.

  
  


He couldn't take any more of this, he couldn't handle it. So he sniffed forcefully, and shouldered Gabriel out of the way. He had what he'd come for, and he couldn't stay another minute and risk Gabriel wearing him down. He had to think of Nathan, his idol, his best friend, and every moment that had been stolen from them before their time. Right now it was almost possible to forget the horrid truth behind Gabriel's conception, but then Peter had to only think of his brother, and every scar was wrestled open anew to bleed freely.

  
  


He didn't look back as he headed to the door, although he knew that Gabriel would be only one step behind. He was unable to set eyes on the shambles of a guy that was _his_ creation. It was a sick irony now that the tables were turned for once in their lives, but the too sensitive, too empathetic man couldn't find any joy in it.

  
  


“ _Wait!_ ” Gabriel cried, and Peter let it stab him, along with every other ignored claim, and kept putting one foot in front of the other. He expected Gabriel to have properly started crying now, and expected his own knees to give way before he had even reached the doormat...

  
  


What he didn't expect, however, was his whole body to be hauled back, thrown across the room, and slammed painfully into the far wall.

  
  


It took a moment for Peter to reorientate himself, and his swimming head would have drooped if it hadn't been pressed back by an invisible, unbreakable force. It was impossible to move his limbs, impossible to get free... eventually, his vision righted itself, and the last dregs of Peter's stomach dropped through the floor. For standing before him, back arched like a cat, hand thrown out in front, was surely _not_ the man that Peter had come to know over the past six and a half weeks.

  
  


“I _won't_ let you leave!” Gabriel hissed, possessed by the strength of his telekinesis and displaying such a chilling sense of control unlike any Peter had seen since a horribly similar experience years ago. The hold on him tightened, and suddenly the petrified empath could barely draw breath.

  
  


*

  
  


Power. Unlike any Gabriel had experienced so far in his modest lifetime. It thrummed and thrived through him, a forgotten instinct that stretched out and took over him, responding to the call of his anger. It seemed ridiculously easy to just keep Peter trapped like this, against his will, and therefore the man couldn't abandon him. This way he couldn't run off and get himself hurt, or worse – killed. It was for his own good, really... Gabriel was doing them both a favour...

  
  


His fingers flexed and Peter gasped and choked, pinned to the wall, helpless and vulnerable and staring at him with such a delicious look of distress... Suddenly Gabriel was transported backwards through the recesses of his own mind: and he was standing in a dimly lit, trashed room, with a body on the ceiling and another against the wall that was imprisoned and powerless and just as terrified then as he was today. Then instinct took over, and Gabriel watched his own hand rise and split his prisoner's forehead open with his invisible blade, heard the hair-raising scream of agony tear from those faulty lips... and then he staggered backward, bumping into Peter's couch, thrust back to the present and the bare, familiar apartment.

  
  


“G...abriel...”

  
  


The weak sound caught Gabriel's attention, and he suddenly noticed that he was still holding Peter in place against the wall. He quickly scanned his eyes over the man's face, but there was no bloody line breaking the skin. So it had just been a memory...

  
  


“Gabriel!” Peter coughed again, and this time the watchmaker properly realised that he was really _holding the guy in place_ , and cutting off his air supply. Panicked, he lessened his grip enough for Peter to gulp in air, and slowly returned to his senses. The intensity of regret and confusion winded the former villain... he had hurt Peter... he had _hurt_ Pete!

  
  


“I – I didn't mean to...” He stammered, shaking his head in an attempt to flush out the flashback and the accompanying, awful aftershocks. Such control had felt so freeing, encompassing... but back here, now, dread was washing up instead. Gabriel gazed at Peter's taut face, saw his defective lip pouting subtly as he tried not to crack again, but it was easy to read it all over his face.

  
  


*

  
  


“Gabriel...” Peter repeated in forced calm, trying to sound commanding, but really he was so terrified that he couldn't hear anything past the blood rushing in his ears. “Put me down.” Heart hammering, he was helpless as he watched Gabriel come to as long-winded a decision as ever. Gradually, the man's eyes stopped darting around madly and he seemed to come back unto himself, suddenly very aware and ashamed of what he'd done.

  
  


He dropped his hand, defeated, and Peter fell, catching himself clumsily. Limbs tingling with pins and needles after being compressed by such pressure, he took only a moment to catch his breath... before darting at Gabriel like a bullet. He crashed into him, grabbed his arm and wrenched the ability to fly out of him, before running straight at the window and launching himself into the sky before there was another chance to stop him.

  
  


“NO!”

  
  


*

  
  


Without even thinking it through, Gabriel dived after Peter and soared through the sky behind him. Flight being one of his lesser-practised abilities, he was awkward in his manoeuvres and shaky in his balance. But he didn't even think of the immense amount of free space between himself and the very solid, very deadly streets below, and instead put all his effort into chasing Peter Petrelli across the sky, high above the bustling city. He couldn't let him go! He _couldn't!_

  
  


It wasn't a particularly clear day, and Gabriel kept losing his target in the misty bellies of the clouds. He blinked water out of his eyes, be it either tears or raindrops, and every time he caught a glimpse of the other man zipping further and further ahead, so effortless and easy in his movements, Gabriel despaired more inside. “PETER!” He shouted, but his voice was thrown back in his face by the strength of the wind.

  
  


“ _Go home Gabriel...!_ ” Distorted and whipped around by the wind, Peter's words sounded strange and ghostly. They came at him from all sides, pressing down on his eardrums.

  
  


“No! I won't just leave you!”

  
  


“ _You don't have a CHOICE!_ ”

  
  


Gabriel caught his last sighting of Peter as he boosted away ahead, fading out of sight far too quickly to catch up with. He was left to stutter in the air and fall behind, dropping every few hundred metres and dragging his speed in sporadic phases. It was awful, like a nightmare that kept clipping his wings and threatening to send him plummeting, but he didn't give up straight away. He tried to follow Peter still, even after the cloudy trail that had formed in his wake faded, and what were most definitely tears this time were drawn out of Gabriel's eyes by the wind before they could even touch his cheeks.

  
  


Eventually he was forced to admit defeat and wobbled through the air, unsteadily flying back across the huge, hostile city that he hated. Somehow he found his way back home, heartbroken and lost, and unable to do anything now but wait and see if his hero would ever return to him.

  
  


  
  


*******

  
  


  
  


“Peter! Uh, what a – a surprise! What're you doi-”

  
  


“ _Where is he?!_ ” Peter Petrelli demanded, wasting no time on pleasantries and barging his way right into Matt Parkman's house, looking around madly.

  
  


“Nowhere! He's nowhere! You're never gonna fi... uh... where's who?” The cop rambled, realising his mistake too late and badly switching tactic halfway through his sentence. This smouldering man was not who he had expected to find when his doorbell had rang, and seeing him practically steaming with vengeful purpose had kicked all of Matt's guilt (especially about his biggest, darkest secret) onto his clumsy tongue all at once, leaving him to blabber and give himself away like an idiot.

  
  


_Wow, Parkman. You should_ really _see how pathetic you look right now... and fat. Have I mentioned that already...?_

  
  


Matt scrunched his eyes closed and pushed the annoyingly snarky voice in his head away for now, recovering the fight for dominance easily enough. His guard had been down, which was why he had almost lost control there, he told himself. Get a grip. It could _not_ happen again... especially in front of this particular visitor who, it seemed, could prove to be deadly if his suspicions were confirmed. But Matt tried not to get ahead of himself, and hurried after the surprisingly strong man as he stormed his way through the entire house and kicked every door open with relative ease.

  
  


“What are you doing here, Peter?” Matt panted, already beginning to overheat and sweat under the investigation. How had he known? What did this mean? That he was all the way out here... something must have happened to the man he had thought of as 'brother'.

  
  


“Sylar! I wanna talk to Sylar!” Peter didn't look back at him once and searched every room wildly, as if he expected to find the serial-killer sprawled out on the couch watching TV or something so laughably casual. If only that were the case...

  
  


*

  
  


Peter's adrenaline had only further skyrocketed during the flight across the country, and now he was positively buzzing for a fight. He stalked down the hall and reached the end bedroom: a baby's. For a brief second Peter was winded by the sight of the crib and clutter of toys across the room, and felt awful for assaulting the house so brazenly. Matt had a family... maybe it was wrong of him to drag them into this...

  
  


But then the other man tried to laugh it off, as if Peter was deluded in his motivation, and all of his anger was well and truly restored. The baby who lived here didn't seem to be home at least, which would be good for when things turned nasty. Peter span on the spot, leaning right into his former comrade's reddening, sweating face and feeling nothing but contempt for him now. This man was just as bad as Angela. His hands were just as dirty.

  
  


“Sylar?” Matt chuckled but his eyes darted around constantly, betraying his agitation. “Why-why would you think he's here?”

  
  


But Peter was having none of it, and bared his teeth in a snarl. “He's not in his body, so where did you put him?”

  
  


The cop visibly swallowed, and suddenly looked as if his shirt collar was too tight. After an age of heavy breathing and more shameful avoiding of eyes, he seemed to deflate. “Nowhere. I – I didn't put him anywhere. I only took him _out,_ a-away.” He stuttered, and Peter waited for a long while, straining his eyes as if it would help him to catch any lies wriggling across that face.

  
  


Once more, he longed for the capacity of his old ability, but only so he could worm the truth out of a telekinetic-bound hostage, read their mind and be able to fly home afterwards. Yearning after what he no longer had regurgitated the same old nagging worthlessness as always, but this time it was for all the wrong reasons.

  
  


So Peter pulled away, grinding his teeth, and continued his thorough search of the house.

  
  


*

  
  


“I _know_ you know where he is, Matt!” Peter accused roughly, and once again Matt was left to scurry along behind as his home was invaded in such a prying way. “And I'm not leaving here until I talk to him!” The furious empath ended his expedition full circle in the living room, and then started uselessly ducking under tables and checking behind the couches.

  
  


“Well you can't! I... he's not here!” Matt blurted, feeling better in that it was only a half-lie of sorts.

  
  


_Oh, if_ only _that were true..._

  
  


“Then tell me where to find him!” Peter demanded, physically shaking now as he hunted around the room in vain. No stone would be left unturned it seemed, and he was clearly desperate, but at least the guy was decidedly more gentle with the stuffed animals and plastic building blocks than he was with the expensive ornaments.

  
  


“No. You don't want to find him, you don't know what you're doing-”

  
  


“Huh, that's weird. 'Cause I thought I was here to get some _answers_ from the guy who _killed my brother_!” Peter's words slashed out cuttingly. “But if that's not an option, then I guess I'll have to ask you instead.” Then he surfaced from the depths of the playpen, scowling, and pointed a finger (and a plushy Tigger) at Matt dangerously. “I know what you did. To Nathan. To Gabr- to Sylar.”

  
  


The voice in Matt's head was decidedly silent, then.

  
  


Goddammit. The cop blew out a great sigh, bunching his hands on his hips and feeling true remorse build for the younger man. It wasn't Peter's fault. Nobody could blame him, really. “How did you find out?”

  
  


“Does it matter?” Peter's voice grated and his face twisted painfully, presumably at Matt's lack of denial.

  
  


“No, not really.” Matt sighed again, and wiped a moist hand over his already damp forehead. “Listen, uh... I'm sorry about what happened. It wasn't my choice, and believe me, you have _no idea_ how much I wish I could go back and undo it all -”

  
  


_All for your own selfish reasons of course..._

  
  


“- but I can't. It is how it is, and hunting down Sylar isn't gonna get you anywhere, Peter.” Matt knew that only too well – he cursed his situation every day, but if he had to struggle like this in order to spare the rest of the world from that murderer, then he would (albeit grudgingly) oblige. “I'm sorry. I can't help you.” He raised his eyebrows in a “and that's final” expression. But as they often did since he'd cut back on his ability use, his words made no impact on the subject. Persuasion alone wasn't enough to initiate whichever action that he wanted anymore, and the urge to relapse was pulling him under.

  
  


*

  
  


It didn't hurt that much, being rejected and turned away once again. What _did_ tingle, however, was sadness at the change in this person Peter had once called 'friend'. He chucked Tigger back down beside Piglet and Pooh, forced to admit defeat. Sylar clearly _wasn't_ here, unless he was hiding in a closet somewhere, which was unlikely. It wasn't like the guy to pass up a dramatic entrance, and cowering away to avoid detection was not even on the table. Then again, Peter didn't even know what he was looking for: what _was_ Sylar now, without a body? A ghost? An astral-projection? A ball of floating light?

  
  


Peter sighed and straightened up, pushing his hair off his flushed face and breathing heavily. He was still more than ready to leap into battle, but without a present opponent this urge was slowly fading. But only barely. Now misery was scratching away at him, and he crossed his arms tightly over his chest, as if protecting his worn and wounded heart. He stomped over to the other man while trying to ignore the mess he had made of the place.

  
  


“You used to be a good guy, Matt. What the hell happened? How could you _do_ something like this?” He asked, unable to understand how someone could perform such an injustice and then carry on with their life as if everything was fine.

  
  


The cop squirmed slightly, but overall he was passive, stony. “It's complicated. I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt, but...”

  
  


“Well someone _did_ get hurt. Multiple people.” Peter closed his eyes to recover himself, but when a very vivid image of Gabriel's distraught face flashed up to greet him, he opened them again quickly, and tried to shake feeling back into his limbs.

  
  


“What is it you're trying to achieve here? Huh?”

  
  


“I thought...” Then Peter's voice lost momentum and he scowled at the toes of his boots. Now that he was actually here, and it had turned out very differently from the fantastic show-down he had envisaged on the journey over, Peter very quickly was beginning to revert to feeling like a deluded kid with big aspirations and no means of achieving them. “I dunno what I thought.” He confessed, lifting his face to match Matt's closed-off expression.

  
  


*

  
  


Matt knew that he almost had him. The younger man was wavering, and all he really needed was the tiniest nudge in the right direction and he'd probably just fly off the way he'd come, back to his manipulative mama and his sad, lonely life.

  
  


_Oh please! Don't tell me you're actually feeling_ sorry _for the guy?! Did you forget what he did to me too? He's not some innocent little saint, Parkman! He's just as bad as the rest of that screwball family!_

  
  


Hand-me-down anger rolled through Matt, tainting him at the edges where the corners of his mind merged not-so-seamlessly with the Other's. He almost literally stumbled, but quickly pulled himself together and set his will against allowing the invader through further.

  
  


He squeezed his fingers tighter into his hips, summoning the strength to remain controlled and impassive before his guest. It might have come off as more 'unsympathetic' than 'I have to act normal', but that wasn't the case. Peter Petrelli was a rare type of human being who could light up a room without even trying, and could make even someone with as many insecurities as Matt feel confident about himself. He was a good guy, and Matt wished he could have helped him, but it just wasn't feasible. It was saddening to look upon him now, a torn and frazzled wreck, and to have had a part to play in that (even if _technically_ it wasn't Matt's fault, as he had been talked into it and so couldn't really be blamed, surely). He also knew how close the Petrelli brothers had been, at times he'd even suspected maybe _too close_ , so it wasn't difficult to imagine how upset the youngest must be now.

  
  


“I'm truly sorry for your loss.” He said, patting a hand stiffly on Peter's shoulder and getting only a slight wince in return. “Go home, Peter. Mourn your brother, leave Sylar out of this.”

  
  


The empath shook his head, that stupid hairstyle swinging. “I can't. I _need_ to find him. _Please_... tell me where he is.”

  
  


“You don't need to concern yourself with that monster any more. I've got it all under control-”

  
  


_Really, Matt? Really? He may be infuriatingly dense, but I think even Peter Petrelli could smell_ that _lie a mile off. Literally. Which reminds me... when was the last time you showered? The very_ least _you could have done was remove my sense of smell along with every other part of me..._

  
  


Shut up! Matt thought violently, pressing his free hand to his head as his consciousness wobbled for a moment. He was sweating now more than ever, and the devil co-existing in his body was latching onto his anxiety, leeching strength for itself and subsequently draining Matt's. The temptation of using his ability to quickly send Peter away was building, but Matt didn't want to give the demon the satisfaction. So instead he settled on leading the guy towards the front door with the hand that still sat heavily on his shoulder. With a finger on the door handle, Matt felt brave enough to round up the conversation with a stab at joviality.

  
  


“Even if I _did_ tell you, you wouldn't believe me.” He let out a small, humourless chuckle, and Peter's eyes narrowed slightly at this sudden, disconcerting information. Later, he would blame his split attention for that too arrogant remark.

  
  


_Ooh! Subtle. How the hell did they ever let you become a cop? … Aw, look at him... now he's all suspicious..._

  
  


Unfortunately, that seemed to be true, and Matt started to lose his cool. Slowly he began to feel uncomfortable, and Peter's piqued eyebrows and questioning gaze only helped to encourage that. The voice in his head chimed gleefully...

  
  


_Why not just tell him the truth? It's not like he can actually_ do _anything about it! Besides, I can't_ wait _to see his face when he finds out..._

  
  


“No!” Matt hissed aloud, then shook his head quickly. Damn it, he was slipping. He was becoming uncomfortably aware of how difficult it was to keep his feet firmly planted in the driver's seat. Peter blinked, surprised at the apparent break in Matt's character, and was now looking him over with the beginnings of unease. Wonderful.

  
  


“You alright, Matt?”

 

 _Actually – can_ I _tell him...? There's something so... hm..._ delicious _about watching those who wronged you crumble. Don't you think?_

  
  


Matt deliberately ignored the smug, playful voice, and tried and failed to keep his expression unreadable under Peter's close scrutiny. Maybe if they just stood here in this awkward silence for long enough then he would just leave? But... no dice. The guy looked increasingly wary, as if he was finally starting to realise that something wrong and unholy was going on here, and Matt began to truly panic now that his hideous, horrible secret was going to be discovered...

  
  


_Oh! Sorry – what was I thinking? It's not like_ you _have ever done anything dishonest to anyone else, right? ...Except ME, of course... and the water guy... the drug dealer... that poor speedster woman you mind-raped into liking you even after she told you_ no _over and_ over _and ov-_

  
  


“Shut up!” This time Matt openly shouted, and Peter jumped back from him a few steps, face open and scared now. But the deranged cop was too pre-occupied to hold back, now that the devil had pulled his strings and set him up. He was fighting with all his might – fighting, but losing this internal struggle.

  
  


_Oh_ please _... surely by now you know it's gonna take more than_ that? _We both know I'm not. Going. Anywhere..._

  
  


_*_

  
  


“Matt...?”

  
  


What Peter had initially taken to be stubbornness now seemed to be something else entirely. Apparently Matt hadn't only been withholding information, but he had also been withholding... _this_. And whatever 'this' was, Peter knew for sure, it was _not_ something he was medically equipped to handle. Helpless, clueless, he was frozen as he watched Matt Parkman stumble around dizzily, screaming at nobody and scratching at his temples.

  
  


“Matt?! What's wrong? Your ability...?” Seriously concerned now, Peter's considerate instincts flared up and overlapped his cooling anger. He tucked away his desire for revenge, and set to work trying to help in any way he could. He worried that Matt was going to collapse, accidentally run through the panes of glass surrounding the porch, or otherwise seriously maim or injure himself. So he dashed to the man's side, placing one hand on his back and the other around his upper arm, providing, he hoped, moral support through whatever was going on, and holding the guy steady until he fell still and silent at last.

  
  


Peter let go when Matt found his footing and straightened up fully, almost gracefully. Peter sighed in relief, grateful to see that he looked to be normal. Or at least there were no physical signs of trauma such as blood flowing from his nose or ears. But as this was an unknown issue, and the possibilities were endless, he kept his hands hovering nearby just in case the guy slumped again. “What _was_ that? Are you okay?!”

  
  


Breath heaving, Matt cracked his neck from side to side, then a delirious grin split his face. “Oh I'm _more_ than okay...” He lifted his hands before his face, curling and uncurling his fingers experimentally. Then he cast a disgusted look down at his own stomach, grimaced, then locked his eyes back on Peter's with tangible intensity.

  
  


All Peter managed was a “wh-?” before he suddenly felt woozy and toppled back into the wall, scrabbling to catch his balance. It felt like someone was grasping his spine with two hands and shaking it forcefully, and although his head was steady his vision swung back and forth unlike anything Peter had ever known. His hand slipped from the wall and he stumbled, falling blindly and bracing himself for a nasty fall. But two strong, warm arms gripped around his torso firmly and held onto him until the sickening lurching rung itself out and faded.

  
  


“What... the hell... was that?!” Gasping for breath, Peter shakily recovered his balance and made to pull away from Matt. But the arms held him fast.

  
  


“Sorry about that. I'm still new to this one, but I think I'll get the hang of it pretty soon. I just wanted you to know who you're _really_ talking to...”

  
  


Only then did Peter notice that the chest he was pressed flat against was no longer broad, but taut and slim, and the arms around him toned instead of soft. This time he was successful in breaking free from those clutches, and staggered as far back as he could before banging into a decorative table and having nowhere else to run.

  
  


“Isn't it amazing what you can see... if only you put your _mind_ _t_ o it...?” The other man stretched as if waking from a long nap. His lips (soft, velvety and sweet, Peter hated that he knew this from experience), hooked up in a smug leer, and ice dripped down the paramedic's insides.

  
  


This was what he'd wanted. This was what he'd flown two and a half thousand miles for, disobeyed his mother and abandoned his only friend for. But now that he was finally faced with Nathan's imposing, infamous killer, who looked exactly the same as the last time they had come face to face in the back seat of the President's car... words failed him. He could do nothing but glower into the chillingly, conflictingly familiar visage of Sylar.

  
  


“Hello, Peter. A little birdie told me you were looking for me...?”

 

 


	11. The Only Thing That Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this moment it's everything that Peter wants – to damage and hurt another person rather than to heal and help them for once...

Boy, did it feel  _ good  _ to be back in control. Sylar stretched his arms and legs again, warming them up and getting re-accustomed to the feeling of once again having limbs to move. The host body was heavy and clumsy compared to his true one, but that was only a slight inconvenience, really. There was a much more...  _ pressing matter  _ to preoccupy him here: such as the hateful little specimen who was standing opposite him now, who's fault Sylar's predicament was in the first place...

  
  


“You son of a bitch!” Peter growled, heat emanating from his tense little body.

  
  


“Oh please,” Sylar mocked, allowing that fiery expression to fuel him. “Don't tell me you really thought your little _trick_ with the sedative would stop me? Nice move by the way. I will admit that I wasn't expecting you to pull shape-shifting on me...” Although his tone was kept lofted and chiding, hostility was simmering just below the surface. Who the hell did this guy think he was?! To do what he'd done and then barge in over here playing the poor little victim?!

  
  


Sylar took one step forward, and Peter scrambled away to the side, keeping as much distance between them as possible. “What did you do to Matt?”

  
  


“It's what _he_ did to _me_ that matters!” Sylar prowled even closer now, pleased to see the man was taken off guard by the sudden arrival of his nemesis. It wasn't the main objective here, of course, but Sylar had always been a sucker for a dramatic entrance. “D'you think I _wanted_ to be trapped in the mind of this overweight, pathetic _nobody_?! Parkman deserves what he gets. Guess that's the price of tearing a person out of their body, huh? Which reminds me... before I kill you for what you did to me... tell me what they did to mine after our little _escapade_ in the President's car!”

  
  


The past few weeks had been a blur of loss and anger and fear and, eventually, resignation. He would never admit so aloud, but Sylar had been _this_ close to accepting his fate was being resorted to a rather vocal thought in another man's head... but now that Peter Petrelli had so politely crashed into the picture, he had provided Sylar with enough motivation to finally break the surface. The last thing he remembered before waking in this confined, sweaty, lump of a body was _that_ face almost pressed against his own, and _that_ hand holding him fast, preventing Sylar from escaping as the needle jabbed under his chin and drained his consciousness away...

  
  


But instead of the fear his promise should rightfully have instilled in his adversary, Peter seemed to grow in size until he was positively threatening. All reluctance and hesitation drained away before Sylar's (or, well, Matt's) very eyes, and his distorted lip twisted furiously. “I'm not telling you _anything_! You _killed_ my brother!”

  
  


The guy's loyalty was really quite admirable, but it stung at Sylar as it always did when he was confronted with the type of everlasting love that other people were allowed to have, yet that he had never experienced in his life. It also irritated him because Senator Petrelli wasn't even worthy of such blind worship. Sylar rolled his eyes, as if Peter was over-reacting. “He should have known better than to come at me with nothing more than pigheadedness in his corner. What did he expect? He was practically asking for it.”

  
  


“No!” Peter let out a strangled yell, fists shaking by his sides. “He was trying to do the right thing! He was a hero!”

  
  


“He was a moron, Peter. Conceited. Deluded. Really, I did you a favour – maybe now you can actually have your own life out from under his narcissistic shadow-” But the rest of his retort was cut off along with his lung function, as Peter had lunged forward and tackled him to the ground.

  
  


*

  
  


The two men rolled and scrapped on the hard wooden floor, fighting for dominance and attacking any part of the other that was within reach. Allowing his blazing emotions to drive him, Peter quickly secured the upper hand and pinned the other man to the floor between his knees. All of the anguish, fury and heartbreak that had taken over every inch of his body since last night diluted to his fists, and he mindlessly went about crushing and smashing Sylar's face and chest with all of the strength he possessed.

  
  


In any other situation he knew he would have lost such a fight relatively quickly, but without his full repertoire of abilities, Sylar was weak in the foreign body and thereby set the stage for a pretty even fight. Although Matt was bigger, Peter possessed more raw muscle strength.

  
  


So he persisted, pressing down on Sylar's windpipe with his left hand while scouring him across the cheek with his right. His already damaged knuckles screeched and broke open again, but the pain barely registered there in comparison to the gut-wrenching blows attacking his ribs and stomach from below.

  
  


“This is for Nathan you _bastard!_ ” Peter shouted, walloping Sylar's jaw once more and watching blood spray from his lips and onto the floor. Seeing red, his vision was blurred and narrow and all that Peter knew was that his brother was gone forever and if he didn't express this torment now then surely he would explode, ripped to pieces and left as nothing but a charred, empty husk of a person.

  
  


*

  
  


Sylar growled and snapped his knee up, digging painfully into Peter's spine and causing him to loosen his grip. During the commotion of flailing limbs, swearing and scrabbling for balance, somehow Sylar managed to get out of the other man's grasp and staggered backwards to create a bigger arena. His face ached and his chest was most definitely bruised, but they were almost satisfying goodbye gifts for Parkman, because Sylar wouldn't have to deal with the repercussions for much longer. One way or another.

  
  


“Here's an idea...” He panted, deft mind working quickly. He spat blood that had gathered from his streaming nose and from biting through his tongue, then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of Parkman's good white shirt. Clearly, he had underestimated the cop's strength in a fight, and was suddenly acutely aware of how quickly this whole thing could go sour. But, naturally, he presented this idea as if it were in Peter's best interests and not his own. “You want revenge, and I want answers... we could help each other, Peter.”

  
  


“I'll never help _you!_ ” Peter squinted at him as if Sylar was crazy. Maybe he was, but that mentality had, at least, always kept him alive in the past. And he intended to keep it that way. It was at this moment that he considered putting all of his effort into focusing Parkman's annoyingly tricky ability and mind-controlling Peter into leaving. But aside from getting no answers, if he let his guard down and he couldn't master the power quick enough, then he was bound to be caught and beaten much worse than the face-smashing that had transpired before.

  
  


“If you tell me where my body is, once I recover it I'll let you live – even though that's a pretty generous offer on my part.” He snipped, lips thin and dangerous. “Not only that, but I won't fight back, and I'll let you vent all the anger you want,” (on a body that can heal from any damage, of course), “and then we'll call it a day and go our separate ways, hm?” It was hardly the most fun activity for Sylar to endure, but he had survived that ordeal before and it had benefited him greatly in the long run. If there was a way to both get his body back and ensure that the infuriatingly stubborn Petrelli wasn't hunting him down forever, then he would gladly sacrifice his revenge to make that happen.

  
  


*

  
  


Just the thought of flying all the way here to land no more than ten punches on this stomach-churning guy was laughable, and Peter ran at him, kicking the fight into the living room. To his credit Sylar didn't try to escape, and launched back into the brawl energetically. Peter _needed_ this – to inflict pain on the guy who had so selfishly stolen from so many others, and who never even felt remorse for any of his actions. Even if it gained him nothing once he left here, in this moment it was everything that Peter wanted – to _damage_ and _hurt_ another person rather than to heal and help them for once.

  
  


They toppled over the couch, tumbling to a clumsy stop on the wood panelled flooring. They hammered each other with fists, feet and elbows, a vicious entanglement of years worth of tension pouring out of them now. Every time Peter landed a blow on the other man, he recalled all the previous times they had crossed fists: their brief struggle atop the Union Wells stadium, the beat-down in Kirby Plaza, Peter's two hunger-fuelled rages in Primatech, and the fateful fight that had resulted in the end of his brother's life. This should have happened sooner. How much agony could he have spared...?

  
  


The two interlocked bodies wriggled and writhed across the room, knocking over tables and bruising bone. Somehow they found themselves in the midst of Matt's baby's toys, scattering building blocks and rolling over an alphabet map. The fight should have been almost absurd in this domestic location, but Peter didn't care that they were trashing the room of a third party's house. He was guided by hatred and driven by love, and above all desperate to do _anything_ that might slightly appease the echoing void where his heart used to be.

  
  


*

  
  


They had somehow gotten themselves into the corner of the room, surrounded by cluttered toys and smashed ornaments. Fumbling desperately, Sylar's fingers closed around a bright plastic phone, and he whacked it over the empath's head. The thing was hardly deadly, but it did it's job and granted Sylar the precious seconds he needed to manoeuvre himself into superiority. He hastily untangled his long legs from the strong ones clenched around them, and rolled free of Peter, using their location to his advantage and shoving into the guy's back. He grabbed Peter's arms and twisted them up behind him (courtesy of Matt's police training – the one thing he was actually useful for), essentially trapping the little man on his knees, flattened face-first against the bars of the playpen.

  
  


He gloated over the grunting and squirming man, proud of his own improvisation. “Was this your grand plan, Petrelli?” He laughed a hitching, wheezing laugh that was slightly restricted by his aching ribs. “You so valiantly flew all the way over here to... what? Kill me? Even if you _had_ managed to win the fight, we both know that you would _never_ have finished me.”

  
  


Peter continued to struggle, his voice biting out roughly. “Fuck you!”

  
  


“You can't seriously expect me to believe that you would actually _kill_ someone who hasn't done you great harm? Of course I don't mean _me_... but what about husband, father and all-around “good guy” Parkman?” He was only more vexed in the knowledge that that was decidedly an exaggeration of his mental room mate, yet the cop had still somehow managed to find himself a loving wife, a good home and a family despite his horrid actions. Not that Sylar particularly _wanted_ those things for himself but he knew that if he ever _did_ , nobody would ever love him after what he'd done. It was so unfair, just another cosmic joke like the rest of his fucked-up life.

  
  


Peter had stopped fighting as much, and seemed to have resigned himself to this position for the time being. Taking advantage of this, Sylar leaned in to whisper in the empath's ear, so close that his breath tickled his hair. “ _He_ didn't kill Nathan... although I bet I'm right in guessing that he had something to do with the aftermath?” Peter flinched as well as he could in his trapped condition, and Sylar saw goosebumps bloom on his neck and across the expanse of shoulder visible beneath the skewed neckline of his jacket. “You can't fool me, _Petrelli_... you're not a killer. You're so desperate to be a hero that you would never end someone's life in cold blood. Not even your sicko father after everything _he_ did! Don't insult me by acting like you could end “ _innocent_ _”_ , “ _good guy_ _”_ Parkman like this!”

  
  


“Get _offa_ me!” Peter commanded, but there was less conviction in his voice now. Sylar only tightened his hold around his wrists. He'd hit an interesting nerve, now all he wanted to do was keep plucking at it.

  
  


*

  
  


“You're too _sensitive_ , and _kind_ for this, Peter. Too noble to get your hands dirty. It's that same part of you that allows you to keep crawling back to that monster bitch of a mother-”

  
  


“Shut _up_!”

  
  


“-And to see the good in everyone, even when it doesn't exist! Take good ol' Parkman here: bet you didn't know he pities you? Because he thinks you're pathetic, and seeing you again only made _him_ feel good about himself and what _he_ has that _you_ don't!”

  
  


Peter scrunched his eyes closed, trying not to shiver at the feel of hot breath and the smell of the wrong person behind him. He was accustomed to Sylar's scent after their many encounters, and had even grown to like it in recent weeks. But it was that killer in another body pressed up behind him now, and Peter would have maybe felt sorry for Matt... if he hadn't just heard what he had.

  
  


Sylar broke into another laugh, which Peter suspected was more for his benefit than genuine humour. “But y'know what? It _is_ pathetic the way you cared so much for Mr High-and-Mighty Senator. Jesus – the only reason you're even here in the first place is to avenge a guy who treated you like shit your whole life! You and your family sure are one of a kind, thank god. And guess what: if it had turned out that Nathan really _had_ been my brother... maybe I would've killed him sooner.”

  
  


That was the breaking point. A full-body tremor shook through Peter and he mewled, shoving back with all his might. He had estimated correctly: he felt his shoulder clip Sylar's jaw and heard teeth clack together, then the hold on him vanished as the man recoiled in pain.

  
  


It didn't take long for Peter to claw his way over the serial-killer, constrain him to the ground once again and start pummelling his smug face into pulp. He didn't care that it was technically Matt's nose he had just busted, or that it would be the cop who had to suffer through the bruises afterwards. Despite what Sylar had just said (and it being, regrettably, true), Peter couldn't possibly leave without some sort of vengeance. He told himself that he wouldn't kill the guy – therefore he would be sparing Matt's life – but he _would_ beat him until he was on the precipice. And that was some goddamned restraint.

  
  


Sylar had clearly been unprepared for such an assault, and no more taunts were shot into Peter. No more laughter chilled his blood. Instead, the former most powerful being on earth made only a weak attempt to fight back, as the full-blown punches to the head seemed to have dazed him. He groaned and his hands scrabbled for leverage, but he was too slow to compete with an upset Petrelli.

  
  


“You're _wrong!_ ” Peter yelled, punctuating his words with more slams to that face. “Nathan. LOVED. Me!” Blood was trickling in a gruesome trail from the corner of Sylar's mouth, and Peter's hand was now grotesquely covered in the stuff from his own knuckles and the transfer from the other man. “And _I_ loved him! And that is NOT a weakness!” It had been labelled as one so many times, and sometimes Peter _almost_ believed it... but it was his unconditional love that made up his very being, made him who he was. And right then he channelled it inwards, allowing it to light him and give him strength. _For Nathan..._

  
  


Heaving for breath, Peter barely hesitated before gripping the man's head in both hands and banging it down against the floor, hard. He felt the ground shake beneath him at the impact, and Sylar's whimper didn't dissuade him at all. The guy deserved it! He had _earned_ it! He had done so much worse to countless, _innocent_ people! Peter drew back his fist for another landing... but then Sylar's fingers found his waist and clung on tightly, bracing himself.

  
  


And that was what halted Peter and simultaneously threw him back to not even twenty four hours ago: when this person's true hands had done the exact same thing while his true body had held Peter and his true lips had carried him away. So soft, so tender. So different to just now. The empath choked on air and wavered on Sylar's hips, baffled by the sweet, golden feeling that the touch had coursed through him. _Gabriel..._ he had almost forgotten about him. Gabriel was waiting for him back in New York. Gabriel _cared._ He was _not_ the same man who was currently captured between Peter's knees, not even a little bit. And if Peter raced headlong into this path that he had started on, he could never go back to how he had been with that gentle man and his pure belief in Peter and his actions.

  
  


Now that the floodgates were open and his repressed and denied emotions were flowing freely, Peter was swept along in the current, gasping and blinking in the afterglow. His goal to honour Nathan hadn't faded, and it probably never would, but it wasn't his only focal point anymore. Perhaps it had been accepting his strength that had done it, but suddenly Peter was now only brimming with love and remorse, and he didn't want to fight anymore. That wasn't who he wanted to be.

  
  


He knew it was foolish, and it was ridiculous to stop while he was _so close_ to winning, but horror shook violently through him as he suddenly looked down upon his friend's beaten face, and not the one of his enemy. Somewhere along the line Peter had stopped seeing Sylar in Gabriel, and now could only see Gabriel in Sylar.

  
  


Until now that face had been smugly contorted, distorted in rage or throwing out snide comments, not at all like the one Peter had looked into for weeks now and seen nothing but kindness and affection. But now that Sylar was stunned and his features were relaxed (although broken), the other, better, guy was shining through so brightly that Peter was blinded. He remembered Gabriel's cry back at the apartment 'I _need you! Don't_ I _matter?_ ', the warmth of his hands atop the bridge when he had comforted Peter's insecurities, and the look of pure amazement on his face those weeks before when he had tasted his first Rocky Road...

  
  


Then suddenly Peter became aware that he was once more crying, for another time that day. He didn't even know when it had started, but he was trembling and breaking apart while what remained of his soul deteriorated and his hand was still raised in an act of brutality that he had never followed through. He missed Gabriel. He wished he could apologise for how he'd left things between them, and he ached to repent in any way he could... He wasn't thinking clearly, and he was so _tired_ , so _exhausted_ and sore...

  
  


*

  
  


Very slowly Sylar's senses returned after the world had momentarily gone black, and he longed after the power to regenerate as his entire head throbbed painfully. He had spaced out for who-knows-how-long, and he was lucky that Peter hadn't gifted him the final blow before he'd had a chance to recover. He blinked to clear blood and grogginess from his vision, and saw that the youngest Petrelli was still straddling him. He tightened his hold on the other man's waist and tried to push him off, but he wasn't strong enough in this weakened, mortal body. Not for the first time he cursed Parkman for his lack of brawn.

  
  


Then Peter's hand touched his cheek again, and he braced himself for another trauma to his skull... but it never came. In fact, the hand did nothing more than ghost across his skin, gentle and careful to avoid the smarting welts and cuts that it had previously created.

  
  


What the hell...? Sylar had suspected he was dazed, but he didn't think he was as bad as to hallucinate! He forced his eyes wide and really looked at Peter, soon realising that the hot little specks that kept darting across his face and neck were tears falling from above, and that the guy was watching him sorrowfully rather than with the murderous grimace he had worn before. It was like he was staring down at a different person, deluded or confused and mistaking Sylar for someone else.

  
  


Okay... Sylar had no clue what the hell had happened while he'd been out, but whatever it was he praised it for this opportunity. Because he allowed the dim-witted empath to stroke his face for long enough until his strength had appropriately returned. Then he manipulated the guy's weakness to turn the tables in his favour.

  
  


With impressive speed and precision (considering his many ailments), Sylar darted up and head-butted Peter, then flailed his legs and twisted, flipping the guy over at an awkward angle and dropping down heavily on top of him. He pressed down with all of his weight, then a sickening _crack!_ and a blood-curdling scream rent the air... but Sylar held on fast, choosing to favour leaning on the arm that felt wrong and unnaturally bony under hand.

  
  


Peter's scream grated in his throat, so Sylar tugged on his (apparently broken) arm again, and allowed the empath's tight little body to convulse and squirm under him. “Tell me what happened to my body, Petrelli.” Sylar hummed, leaning in close to Peter's wet and anguished face the way they always seemed to do whenever they came across one another.

  
  


“AH! N- no!” Peter ground through gritted teeth, then another howl erupted from him as Sylar squeezed his arm again.

  
  


“ _Tell me._ Or I'll rip it clean off.” Sylar threatened, knowing full well that Matt didn't have the strength to do so, but hoping that the guy's pain was clouding his rational thinking.

  
  


Peter's wild, shining eyes stared wildly up at Sylar, and the taller man watched another tear dew and roll off his eyelashes. This time he was pretty certain it was from pain and not due to whatever-the-fuck had gone on before. He clenched his fingers slightly in promise but when the man bit his lips and only moaned in agony, Sylar gave up that tactic. The guy was stubborn, unbreakable, as always.

  
  


Impatient now, Sylar let up and hauled Peter to his feet with all of Matt's weight, then shoved him away violently. Peter staggered back into a shelf, knocked it off it's place and crashed awfully into the wall. He hitched in tiny breaths and pawed faintly at his ruined arm, and when he weakly slid down towards the ground his hair smeared fresh, vibrant blood down the wall.

  
  


*

  
  


Everything hurt. But Peter suspected it should have hurt more than it did. That last thump to the head had knocked his perception off-kilter, and he felt thick and heavy, as if trying to move underwater. His ribs stabbed him when he drew breath, so he was forced to survive on only tiny sips of air.

  
  


He was vaguely aware of feet approaching his side, and knees bending as the owner crouched down. Then two surprisingly gentle fingers pressed under his chin and tipped his face up. Relief such as he'd never felt eased his pain just slightly when he found himself looking into Gabriel's familiar eyes... wait, no... not Gabriel... it was someone else... the _wrong_ _person_...

  
  


“If you're not going to tell me, I'll just have to take what I need...” The voice slithered out, coiling around Peter and invading his body. He couldn't tear his terrified gaze from those cold, dead eyes as they looked right into him and helped themselves through his secrets and memories.

  
  


Peter was just a spectator in his own head as his past was rummaged through and years of his life were cast aside as if they meant nothing. He watched as Sylar flipped through his mind, searching... searching... and stopped when it came to the false cremation.

  
  


“ _No_...!” Sylar choked, gasping like he'd been stabbed through the middle. Then Peter could do nothing as the guy marched on through, furious and in denial, until he stumbled across the fateful day that had changed Peter's life forever. They both watched as the paramedic lingered outside the soundproofed door, trying to stay calm, then followed Dr Gibson into the holding room to end up face-to-face with dirty, lost and helpless Gabriel Gray.

  
  


Sylar frowned, but as he continued to read through every detail of the encounter, and the subsequent ones over the following weeks, his expression tightened and a flush crept over his face. Peter wanted to shout out that these were private memories, and to kick Sylar out of his mind, but he was trapped beneath the ability that he so very much hated, and could do nothing as his most intimate feelings and thoughts were unravelled and nosied into by his worst enemy.

  
  


Re-living those times so vividly only drained more of the deranged sickness out of Peter, and he wished he hadn't come here and got himself into this mess, just as Gabriel had advised him against. He wished he had stayed in New York and told Gabriel that it wasn't his fault, and that of course he mattered. He wished he had expressed his pain over Nathan's loss to someone trustworthy and safe... instead of this. But it was too late now.

  
  


*

  
  


Sylar sped up his voyage in that surprisingly captivating mind. He was unpractised in this ability, but got the hang of it pretty quickly. He whizzed through weeks of Peter laughing and joking and smiling with the imposter in his body, and envy and jealously rose at the images. He had never had any of those things, yet someone else pretending to be him could get it for doing absolutely _nothing_?! Spurned on by his hurt, he began to internally criticize the things he saw, telling himself that he didn't want it anyway! He caught glimpses of dozens of movies and the accompanying inside jokes, and could practically taste the food that Peter cooked sometimes and other times was eaten straight from cardboard boxes. Upon seeing his old workbench, he hated that the other guy, – _Gabriel_ (daring to assume _his_ name too!) – had continued and worked past where Sylar had left off with his collection of watches and clocks...

  
  


But then he came to a brilliant, ruby sunset, and two men locked together in a gentle, compassionate embrace. His face remained unreadable as he let the scene play out, but his insides twisted and tied to knots as he replayed the kiss another three times.

  
  


By the time he had eventually trawled his way to Peter's confrontation with Mama Petrelli that morning, and obtained the information that he had initially wanted, it didn't feel that important anymore. He recalled the feelers of Matt's ability, dropped Peter's face and stood up fluidly. Stunned into silence, he ensured to be facing away so that his features couldn't be read for vulnerability.

  
  


“Please...” Peter's voice croaked helplessly behind him, and Sylar wanted to shout at him for being so pitiful. “ _Please,_ Sylar... leave him alone!”

  
  


“ _Him_?” Sylar hissed, lifting his shoulders and wetting his dry lips. “You mean... _Gabriel?_ Me?”

  
  


“No. He's not you.”

  
  


Sylar blinked furiously, not to hold back tears but to recall the surreal vision once again... Peter Petrelli, perhaps the person who hated him more than anyone else on the whole planet... cradling the head and kissing the lips of someone who looked so very much like Sylar... but wasn't. Of course he wasn't.

  
  


It seemed that Peter had run out of power now, due to the physical trauma to his head or the mental one, Sylar couldn't be sure, but he hated the way Peter was begging. “Please don't hurt him! He didn't do anything wrong – it wasn't his fault!”

  
  


“Shhhh!” Sylar hissed, pressing a hand to his forehead and trying to remain composed. Matt's heart was thundering loudly in his chest, and he could never un-see what he now knew. Did this change anything...? _Should_ it...?

  
  


*

  
  


While Sylar's back was turned, Peter started getting hazily to his feet. He couldn't put weight on his left arm, and his head felt hot and wet at the back, but he was determined. It took a long while before Sylar turned back to Peter, long enough that he had just managed to stand up fully while supporting himself on the broken shelf.

  
  


Sylar shuffled over, hovering a safe distance away. “Why... why would you do that? Take him in? ...Care for him that way?” The cocky arrogance was completely gone now from the serial-killer, and his voice was thin and weak. “After everything that we've been through? Everything I've done?” His eyebrows twitched constantly, as if unsure whether to lift or lower, and his eyes raked over Peter, as if he could possibly glean more information from him than he had already just stolen.

  
  


“He's _not_ you!”

  
  


“But you didn't know that... at first.”

  
  


Peter kept his lips shut and tried to stay aware and alert, although his itchy eyelids threatened to droop and his body threatened to crumple.

  
  


“Wou...” Sylar licked his lips again, suddenly seeming very small and needy, and Peter averted his eyes because the sight stung so strongly of Gabriel. “Would you have done that anyway? If that _had_ been me...? And – and Nathan wasn't-”

  
  


“No.” Peter's lip curled, and he shut down the notion before Sylar could let it run away with him. Truthfully, the answer was probably a soul-destroying 'yes', but he wouldn't even entertain the idea now. If Nathan _was_ still here and Sylar had asked him for help... no, no, no and it didn't matter anyway, because Nathan was dead and this guy was to blame.

  
  


“So that's why you wouldn't tell me where my body was? To protect... him?” The man's face was a twitching, jittery ensemble of nerves and muscle and open wounds that still oozed blood. It was bizarre to see Sylar overcome with... was it... regret? But Peter didn't let it sway him. He had previously known that Sylar had it within him to be better, but he held no hope for it now. A line had been crossed, and there was no forgetting it. And there was no competition in who Peter would fight to protect.

  
  


*

  
  


It was astounding that this human being would do such a thing as he had done: sheltered and cared for who he had, at first, thought to be Sylar. He couldn't believe that Peter would do that for him. It made the killer feel watery and numb inside, because never in a million years would he have guessed that _Peter Petrelli_ could be his salvation... although he couldn't be. He was someone else's. And Sylar didn't even want salvation anyway! He wanted power! Freedom! His own fucking body back!

  
  


But if he got it... what would he do then? When there was nobody to love him, nobody to think of him... if everyone thought he was dead, then they had most likely pushed him out of their minds. And so Sylar could very well be powerful, almighty and unstoppable... but, again, he would be alone.

  
  


And “alone” no longer was the enticing, impressive label that it used to be. Especially when someone else was living _his_ life better than he had! The one that had always been outside of his reach.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter's knees had started to wobble and his vision was definitely lagging, but he didn't know if this was over, or if he would even make it out of here. And now Sylar knew exactly where to find Gabriel. “What're you... gonna do?” He swallowed harshly, wincing again when he accidentally brushed his arm off the wall.

  
  


“I don't know...” Sylar mused, more to himself than to Peter.

  
  


“I can't just let you-”

  
  


“I said I don't know!” The man paced back and forth briefly, lost in thought and apparently mulling over his options.“But... I... This isn't over! You think I'm just going to let you go back to _my_ body and I... what? Stay here in this hell hole for the rest of time? Please!”

  
  


He had no idea what to say to that. ' _Yes. Stay here forever and butt out of my life. Ruin Matt and his family's instead, as long as I get to be happy for once'_...? Sadly, that wasn't quite going to cut it. So Peter just kept his mouth shut and wondered if he would be able to make it past the debris from the fallen shelf and to the door before Sylar could stop him, although he doubted it. He was through with this battle, and if he died right here by Sylar's hand, he would die incomplete – because there was something he still had to do. So much he still had to say...

  
  


The taller man stopped prowling and Peter could actually see his decision pull up and over him like a ghostly hood, settling those features into place for one thing: something wicked. “We can't both have him, Peter... someone has to lose. And I'm sorry... but it's _not_ gonna be me!”

  
  


Sylar dashed towards Peter, hands reaching to choke the life out of his already oxygen deprived body, and in the same moment Peter swiped up a flower pot that had fallen from the shelf and _cracked_ it over his adversary's skull. The exertion on his weakened form took its toll, accompanied by another spine-shaking incident, and Peter dropped to his knees to catch his balance. The other man _thumped_ heavily onto his back and lay still, the illusion broken at last.

  
  


Peter crawled on his good hand and bruised knees over to the immobile form, and pressed trembling fingers into Matt Parkman's neck. The guy's pulse was fast and frantic, yet to settle down from the adrenaline in his system, and so Peter sat back on his haunches and took a moment to catch his breath. For now, at least, Sylar seemed to be gone. He hoped Matt would forgive him for messing him up as badly, but it could maybe be considered payback for what he had done to Gabriel, to Nathan, and so obviously, to Peter.

  
  


The room continued to spin dizzyingly when Peter sluggishly made his way to the front door, leaning on the glass wall and smudging bloody handprints in his wake. He had to get home. He had to apologise. He had to see straight – otherwise making the two and a half thousand mile flight would be an extremely difficult task. But he didn't wait any longer, and the very man who would insist upon rest and recuperation for anyone else determinedly struggled through on himself, stumbling into Matt's porch before shakily lifting up into the sky on his second attempt.

  
  


***

  
  


'Woken' wouldn't be the right word, because Gabriel couldn't possibly sleep. It was dark outside now, and the day had dragged past in a state of unrest that had lasted into the night. Maybe 'roused' was more fitting, as when he heard a sporadic little scraping noise from somewhere nearby, he was pulled from his tormented stupor to investigate. He pushed down his bed covers and crept around the corner of the room in his mismatched pyjamas, anxious, nervous and terrified of what he might (or might not) find...

  
  


The anticipation didn't lesson the real event in any way, and Gabriel actually ran to the window when he caught sight of his friend, small and huddled on the fire escape, weakly tapping the glass with his fingers.

  
  


“Pete...!” He breathed, fumbling with the latches on the window. The anger, resentment and heartache that had been killing him all day vanished upon the sight of the beaten and broken man. He wrenched up the glass pane and ignored the chill air billowing around him as he stood and stared at the bruised mess of a guy before him now.

  
  


“I'm sorry.” Peter whispered. He was leaning his weight into the side of the building, looking up at Gabriel with eyes he had feared he would never see again. The empath shook his head in one tiny movement, then he started to cry, biting his lip and trying not to let his face collapse. “I'm so sorry Gabriel.” He gasped, and Gabriel wasted no time in pulling him in through the window.

  
  


The little man groaned and hissed at the handling of his damaged body, but fell gratefully into Gabriel when he held him close, enveloping him in a hug. It was nothing more than a simple cuddle, arms around each other and holding on for dear life, but it meant the world to Gabriel who felt like his dreams had been granted right then. Peter was swaying worryingly, as if he couldn't even stand up straight, and the taller man bundled him more securely in his grip and rocked him, soothed him, while being careful not to hurt Peter's obviously hurt left arm.

  
  


He stroked Peter's head when the empath began to sniffle, burying his face in the crook of Gabriel's neck and shaking profusely. “I'm so sorry... I'm sorry...” He repeated, voice tight and mutilated by tears. Crusty, dried blood was matted in Peter's hair, and Gabriel felt a hot, nasty bump on his scalp at the back of his head. Peter winced at the contact and Gabriel's legs turned to rubber. He didn't even want to think about what might have happened to leave the man in this state – he had done literally nothing else but imagine it since he had last seen him that morning.

  
  


“You don't have to apologise.” He whispered, dangerously close to caving in to tears himself. He'd never seen Peter cry in this life, and the man's sorrow cleanly stitched up every wound that his biting wrath had sliced open earlier. He meant what he'd said: he _didn't_ need an apology, he already knew that Peter was sorry. “Just you coming back is enough.”

  
  


*

  
  


That was when Peter's first, audible sob broke from him, and he struggled for breath and allowed his tears to trickle down Gabriel's neck, pooling in the hollow at the base of his throat. It was a miracle he'd even made it back at all – his sense of direction had been rendered useless by the fight, and he had had to change course multiple times. It had taken far too long to reach his destination, and he honestly couldn't remember the rest of the journey after passing Kansas, but someone from above must have been looking after him to have guided him safely back to Gabriel's window and into his arms.

  
  


Although the angles and textures of this man were frightfully similar to the one Peter had stumbled into by Matt's front door, and the arms around him were identical in every way, the distinction between the two people shone brightest in the emotion of his touch. This wasn't Sylar, in any way, shape or form. This was Gabriel. That divide was immense, and Peter couldn't believe he had ever doubted it. He shed his wasted guilt over what he had done to the murderer, and there was nothing holding him back anymore. And so he spread his wings and glided, allowing himself to fall and go on nothing more than trust that Gabriel would catch him.

  
  


“I'm s-so sorry.” He said again, blowing the hitching words onto the skin that was warm against his own. “I didn't mean what I said. You _do_ matter! Of _course_ you do! You were right: I was j-just angry... stupid... p-pathetic...” He added, painfully remembering Sylar jabbing that word at him, and felt Gabriel shake his head.

  
  


*

  
  


He pulled back just enough to cup Peter's face, being mindful of the wounds marring his black and blue skin. “You'll never be pathetic, Peter.” He raised his eyebrows encouragingly and his mouth curved into the beginning of a sweet smile. “...You're wonderful.” Peter closed his eyes, as if to savour those words, and another hot tear trickled down his face into Gabriel's palm.

  
  


He wanted to kiss him again so badly. There was no hesitation in his mind, not even the slightest worry that Peter would throw him off... but he just didn't want to take advantage when the man was in such a state, and didn't want to further aggravate his aching face. Instead Gabriel softly guided Peter across to the narrow bed, sat him down steadily on the edge and hurried around to secure a clean towel and a basin of water.

  
  


When he returned to the empath's side, the man was threatening to curl up and fall asleep, and Gabriel panicked. He didn't know a thing about concussions of if Peter even had one, but letting him sleep didn't seem like a good idea in any case. “Here, take regeneration.” He said, and Peter's red-stained hand sought out his forefinger and clung on, like a baby. Gabriel watched with baited breath as the golden light accompanied the fluttering tingle in his hand, and the many cuts and ailments on his friend crunched and grinded and shrunk into nonexistence.

  
  


He helped Peter to sit up, and set to work wetting and wringing the towel before dabbing gently at the blood on his otherwise pristine face. “So what happened?” He tiptoed into the topic gently, unsure if he really wanted to know but willing to listen if Peter needed to express it.

  
  


But the dejected hero just shook his head and gnawed his lip. “Not now. I _will_ tell you, but... I don't even wanna think of it right now.” Unlike the boundless energy that Gabriel had previously witnessed Peter display after taking regeneration, he still seemed as forlorn as he had before, just without the physical injuries. It seemed that, even though his body was healed, his spirit was broken beyond repair.

  
  


“Okay.” Gabriel mumbled, and they sat in a long, but somehow comfortable silence while he tenderly and carefully wiped away blood snot and tears with the towel, the way this man had once done for his hand when he had sliced it on broken glass. Gabriel could hardly believe it had been so long ago, but at the same time it felt like only yesterday. He couldn't comprehend a time before Peter had been there (figuratively and literally), yet he was still overcome with what felt like newfound joy and surprise that he was even lucky enough to have been graced with such a companion. They had come so far since Peter had recovered him and taken him home. They had evolved so much since then, and Gabriel hadn't even really been aware of the full extent of that until now. He treasured it.

  
  


The water in the basin was red and swirling by the time the next words were spoken. Peter waited until Gabriel was certain that the last of the mess was gone to push the towel down and take both his hands in his own. “I'll never leave you again. If you don't want me to.” He pledged, and the sincerity was heavenly in his gravelly voice.

  
  


Now, for sure, all of Gabriel's dreams _had_ been granted, and he smiled hugely despite the events of the day and the basin of mixed water and blood at his feet. “I don't want you to leave again.” He said, and caught Peter's deep sigh and the way his entire body unwound.

  
  


The empath's cheeks blushed and his lips struggled to lift, as if he wanted to smile but couldn't really get a grip on it. “I mean, except for work, obviously. I'll need to leave to go to work, but apart from that -” Gabriel cut off Peter's self-conscious ranting by squeezing his fingers perhaps a little too tightly, but it was only because he was desperate to get the words out.

  
  


“You said before, back on the bridge, that everyone you care about disappears? Well I won't. I really mean it, Peter. I'll never walk out on you, no matter what. I promise.” Gabriel smiled despite himself, infatuated by the genuine amazement and incredulity on Peter's face. He looked so young in that moment, so vulnerable and broken, so in need of tender care... and Gabriel wanted to give him just that.

  
  


This time there were no nerves making him clumsy, for he knew that they both so desperately needed it as much as the other. It only felt natural when he freed one hand from Peter's to trail the man's unruly hair out of his wet eyes, his first experience with a caress so intimate. And when he pulled the empath's face towards his and their lips touched for only the third time ever, Gabriel consummated his promise with every fragment of his handmade heart.

  
  


*

  
  


The pressure of Gabriel's kiss and the smell of his skin smothered Peter in the best way possible. He pressed into the other man gently, allowing him to set the pace and lead the way this time. He twined his left fingers with Gabriel's and tickled his jaw and neck with his right ones, letting go, getting lost and never stopping to think about how he was ever going to get out again. After such an intense twenty-four hours, Peter allowed this man to care for him, allowed his warm body to push him backwards against the mattress and allowed his tongue to chase every last tiny doubt away.

  
  


Peter ached for some comfort, to have someone else take charge for once. He wanted to be held and cradled, to feel connected to another person in a way he hadn't for years now. Gabriel stroked Peter's hair, peppered his skin with butterfly kisses and mouthed the last lingering tears away. He worked slowly and carefully, and the smaller man felt an unfamiliar heat rush through him: the assurance – the _trust –_ that someone would really take the time to be this gentle and compassionate with him, only out of devotion.

  
  


They made love that night on Gabriel's too small single bed, with Peter savouring both the emotional and physical support and Gabriel holding him the entire way through it. Peter let himself be taken care of as the body that had previously caused him so much harm now pleasured him with gentle rocking and a trusting embrace. He closed his eyes as the hands that had previously almost throttled the life out of him now caressed his throat with feather-light touches. He clung onto Gabriel, this beautiful other person, and at the amazing sensation of a warm, solid body curling into him, he shut everything else out. He temporarily dropped his hold on the loss of his brother, the betrayal of his mother, and the looming fear of the serial-killer who was never going to give up.

  
  


Peter Petrelli almost forgot that the rest of his barren world had collapsed around him, and that this blissful reprieve couldn't last forever... because when they were together in this way, wrapped around each other, the only that that mattered was Gabriel Gray.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry – this isn't the end! There is more story to come, I promise x)


	12. Just Stay Here With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Peter decides it's time to tell Gabriel everything. Ignorance won't protect them any longer...

 

His nose was itching. It was decidedly annoying. He twitched it slightly, and tried to remain asleep. But the tickling persisted until Gabriel had no choice but to drag his arm from the depths of sleep and rub at his nose with the back of his hand. It was only then that he remembered, with a full-body jolt, that he was lying naked against Peter Petrelli.

  


Fully awake now, Gabriel opened his eyes and saw that it was Peter's hair that had been pressed against his face, and which had woken him. He grinned, the biggest grin he had ever grinned, and shuffled an inch back on the pillow so he could breathe clearly. His delirious eyes travelled over the back of Peter's head, down the length of his neck, his shoulder and his sculpted back. He remembered seeing that stretch of bare skin for the first time just days ago in the bathroom mirror, yearning to touch _so badly..._ and now couldn't have been prouder that he had slept flush against it for the past seven hours (according to his many repaired clocks). He had only to dip his head a fraction to press kisses to the smattering of freckles decorating Peter's shoulders that he had so admired from afar.

  


Gabriel had never felt so wonderful, even though his muscles were stiff and aching after the nightly workout, his left arm was numb where it lay trapped beneath Peter, and he was too hot and sweating from sleeping curled around another body on such a tiny bed. He didn't know much on the topic of losing one's virginity, but he suspected that this had to have been the best way imaginable to do it. He felt funny everywhere, aware that something wasn't quite the same, and giddy with the memories. It had been beautiful, sweet and tender, and if Gabriel hadn't been any good at it for his first time then Peter had never once complained. In fact he had seemed to enjoy it immensely. And only more the following times...

  


Even now, despite the multiple recent releases of the stuff, desire once more uncoiled slowly inside Gabriel at the prolonged contact between his body and the smaller, firmer one teasing his stomach and groin. He wasn't done yet – he wanted _more!_ _O_ f course, he knew that today was unlikely to be filled with the same carefree bliss that had filled the night's hours (the best hours of Gabriel's short life). Now that the sun was creeping weakly across the carpet, the new day was upon them. And Gabriel suspected there was a lot of talking looming on the horizon, just waiting to spoil this fleeting sanctuary that the two men had created.

  


But first, he needed a shower. His body was sticky with a film of last night's sweat, and he wondered idly if the hot water would unwind the knots in his shoulders, abdomen and legs. Nowhere had he ever seen anything warning him about the body-binding strain that continued sex put on one's muscles, but he wouldn't trade it for anything. He loved the pain.

  


“ _Peter..._ ” He murmured, more breath than voice, and trailed his free hand from his sleeping partner's elbow, up the relaxed (but still somehow impressively firm) shape of his upper arm and scratched his nails in little circles. Peter slept soundly on, so Gabriel instead tickled up and down the sleeping man's spine. He whispered his name softly into his shoulder between more gentle kisses to the freckles and deep inhales of heavenly fragrance. Eventually he was granted with a sleepy sigh and an impatient moan that sparked oh-so-vivid flashbacks from last night through Gabriel's mind and body. But nothing else. It seemed that Peter wasn't quite ready to be woken and as much as Gabriel hungered to claim that lovely, tempting body once again, he couldn't bring himself to rouse Peter from the ease of dreams when he knew that today was going to be hard on him. So he regretfully untangled himself from his friend, tucked the duvet in tight to spare him a draft from the Gabriel-sized void in the mattress, and tiptoed to the bathroom clumsily on stiff legs.

 

Standing under the hot jet of water, Gabriel purposely chose not to employ regeneration to ease his pains. He wanted to keep a hold of real proof that last night had actually happened, and as he mournfully washed Peter's scent off his skin, he stubbornly held onto the muscle cramps. The water rushed over his tingling skin, and Gabriel smiled through the entire soaping and rinsing of his body, flying higher off endorphins than he ever had while literally soaring through the air.

 

He was rinsing the shampoo from his hair when hot, soft arms curled around his chest and caught him off guard. Gabriel gasped at the surprise – he hadn't even heard the door open – then watched familiar hands slide over his chest and felt a man's toned body press flat against his back. Just as he opened his mouth to express his pleasant surprise, Peter's arms clenched slightly and his breath sent shivers along Gabriel's shoulder.

  


“Shhh... lets just stand here...” Peter's fingers dug in lightly, anchoring himself in place. As if Gabriel would ever throw him off, anyway! “...Just stay here with me....” He murmured, and Gabriel nodded, rubbing along smooth forearms and winding his fingers through Peter's.

  


“Okay.” Gabriel was happy to oblige (any touch from this wonderful specimen was hardly anything to disagree with, after all, let alone full head to toe contact), but he was also a little confused. Already his body was hastily preparing itself once again as arousal rushed through his veins, and he could feel that Peter was still amazingly naked behind him... but not quite as excited in the same way Gabriel was. So he stood there holding onto deceivingly elegant hands and allowing the water to assault his front while Peter blessed his back with his presence, unsure what was happening but just grateful to be a part of it.

  


*

  


Breathing in tandem with the taller body, Peter just wanted to be close to someone. Even after hours of being physically _closer_ to anyone than he had been in what felt like forever, as well as falling asleep practically on top of the other man due to space restrictions, his appetite still wasn't quite sated. He doubted it ever would be. So he just held on, shivering at the edge of the jet of water, rubbing his cheek against the tickly ends of Gabriel's wet hair at the base of his neck, terrified of losing this. He remembered the last time they had been in this room together, and only tightened his grip – so unbearably grateful that he had someone here to keep him strong.

  


It would be ridiculously easy to just stay this way forever, locked away in this magical little universe and letting the rest of the world pass by, à la Gabriel, but reality was scratching down Peter's back painfully, piercing the skin and bleeding dread. He couldn't hide any longer. He had done enough of that already. And now that he had opened up to Gabriel, body and soul, and let him in so intimately... he couldn't keep secrets from him anymore. Especially one as big as this. Ignorance wouldn't protect them any longer.

  


*

  


The pair stood hugging in the narrow tub until the water had long turned cold, but Gabriel didn't complain, and Peter only shivered more, taking his heat from Gabriel's steadily cooling skin.

  


Gabriel didn't know if it was the dropping temperature or simply the innocence of the embrace, but his rampant desires receded the longer he stood there, and he was happy just to share the same air space as lovely little Peter Petrelli.

  


Then, finally, soft lips moved against the back of his neck silently a few times before Peter's voice came out timid and gravelly. “There's something...” Then he faded off, struggling to spit out the words that they both knew would put an end to this wonderful escape.

  


So this was it, then. Gabriel accepted the fate of the day with his head held high, but he wouldn't deny that his heart drooped at the knowledge that this paradise was over. Peter squeezed his fingers, as if garnering strength from Gabriel's, and this time his voice was stronger if only more dejected. “Something I haven't told you. About...” Another pause, and Gabriel felt the other man's face bury deeper against his skin, and braced himself for the worst.

  


“Tell me.”

  


“...About who you used to be.”

  


*

  


The two men sat side by side on the bathmat, with only a shared body towel strewn haphazardly over their laps, hair still dripping and naked bodies air-drying. They only grew more sore and stiff with the uncomfortable edge of the bath digging into their backs, but chose to stay here rather than return to the warmth and comfort of the bed. At least here there wasn't such a blatant excuse to avoid this vital conversation further.

  


Peter hated what he had to say, but that didn't make it easier to do so. This time there could be no censoring of details for Gabriel's sake: he had to tell him everything – everything that he knew about the man Sylar. Starting at the beginning, Peter told Gabriel the true story of how they had met in Odessa, the same story that he had kindly edited on their first day together while they had similarly sat side by side on Peter's couch. So much was different now. He included everything about that fateful night: the super-powered cheerleader who Sylar had hunted down to kill and who Peter had come to rescue; the mistaken identity and pointless murder of the wrong girl; how Sylar had chased Peter and Claire to the top of the stadium, where Peter had fought him and pulled them both over the side, killing himself in the process and severely injuring Sylar so Claire could escape. He told Gabriel about all of Sylar's horrific actions (the ones he knew of at least), what, exactly, his abilities really meant and how he had truly obtained them.

  


He gagged on the words, hurting himself by hurting Gabriel with this news. But it was for the best. He really, truly believed that.

  


“...Are you okay?” He asked at last, once he had spilled the toxic secrets out into the open (and still slightly steamy) air in the small room. He leant further left into Gabriel, where their bare arms were pressed together for both warmth and moral support.

  


*

  


“Yes.” Gabriel breathed, and was pleasantly surprised to realise that, yes, he was actually okay, if a little dazed. He probably should have been more wrecked after discovering that he used to be a mass-murderer who sliced heads open and maybe-did-maybe-didn't eat the brains of his victims to assume their abilities. Most of the horrendous information was new... but all of it fit too well into the empty spaces that still lingered inside him. As much as he hated it, the information was unarguably true. And that name, _'Sylar' –_ the “nickname” he had feared and hated those weeks ago... at least now he knew why it had repulsed him so.

  


He had expected something a bit more... monumental, perhaps. But finally tying the loose ends of his personality together didn't really feel that magnificent. There were no bells chiming, no light bulbs flashing above his head and no eureka moment. Instead he just felt full, as if he had eaten too much of a bad meal that now weighed heavily in his stomach. It wasn't as if he suddenly _knew_ who he was supposed to be now, and thankfully there was no alter-ego fighting inside him, desperate to get out now that he had been announced. At least, Gabriel didn't think there was. Instead it was more like the painful truths had completed that infuriatingly unfinished jigsaw puzzle inside – but now that he was finally done with the thing, he had no idea what the hell to do with it. It just sat there: ugly, dirty and sore, and there was nothing he could do about that.

  


“I'm really sorry Gabriel.” Peter insisted, picking at a loose thread at the edge of the towel. “I know how badly you didn't want to know about your past. How scared you were about what you might find out, but -”

  


“If I hadn't suspected that... d'you think I would have stayed away from it as much as I did?” Gabriel asked sadly, shining remorseful eyes down on Peter's genuinely shocked expression. Oh Pete... Gabriel's heart fluttered again for Peter's undying goodness. He reached up a hand, cupping the empath's cheek and rolling his thumb over that fateful bottom lip, just because he could now. “The reason I tried so hard to ignore everything about the old me, was because I knew it wouldn't be good news.”

  


“How di-?”

  


“The memories.” Gabriel closed his eyes to fight back the flashes of gory pools of blood and lifeless bodies surrounding him. “They're not always clear, but... there are too many of them. How could a good person have been involved in something like that? So many times?” He frowned, lowering his hand and feeling the pad of his thumb tingle still. “I've seen you die, Peter. Over and over again. Now I know that _these_ hands have the power to... and after what happened yesterday...” He broke off, disgusted at himself.

  


“You mean the part where you pinned me to the wall?” Peter asked, almost lightly. Gabriel just nodded, too ashamed of himself to answer, but Peter chuckled bluntly. “Hey, I've had worse from those hands. Plus, I kinda deserved it for treating you the way I did.”

  


Gabriel appreciated Peter's attempt at lightening the guilt, but he also saw straight through that teasing smile. He knew perfectly well how terrified the man had been while under the hold of telekinesis, and now saw a fleeting trace of that same horror at merely the memory. Peter was only doing what he always did: deeming _his_ feelings less worthy than everyone else's.

  


“No you didn't.” Gabriel almost set off on a long-winded rant of apologies and explanations so that Peter would know it was a one time thing, would never happen again, that he could trust Gabriel, and had no reason to be afraid. But he didn't. “I'm sorry. I should never have...” He raised his shaking hands before him, aware even now of the strength of the invisible power that had lingered since he'd unlocked it yesterday. It scared him, and now he knew that was an appropriate reaction.

  


It was obscene that his hands had drawn life from countless people, instilled fear and terror into everyone who saw him – yet could also be used for such good, to cause such pleasure and happiness as he had seen on his friend's face during the perfect hours of the night. It was all wrong. He didn't deserve to touch and tickle and caress another person, he deserved to stay away from everyone he could possibly hurt. Especially this amazing, forgiving, golden-hearted man that somehow could sit beside him like this even after everything he knew.

  


“Listen.” Peter said, suddenly full of authority as if he had read those thoughts somehow. His fingers locked around Gabriel's tightly, holding his hand steady, and he glowed with remnants of the bright, helpful nurse who Gabriel felt he hadn't seen for a while. “What he's _done_ , what you _saw_...? That's not you. It's nothing to do with you, Gabriel. Alright? Those are...” His free hand swayed through the air as he gestured for the right word. “Just something that happened _before_ you. They don't mean anything, and they don't change how I feel about you. At all. 'Kay?”

  


Even if Peter _was_ only smothering his fear to express those lovely words, no lie chimed in Gabriel's skull. Warmth flooded his veins and he would have smiled, but it was somehow difficult to under the weight of so much heavy history. Peter's face and hold on his hand spoke so strongly of the first time Gabriel had met him after waking up in this empty head. He remembered the stale air of the holding cell, the cold metal of the table and Peter's touch on his shoulder, then later, in hand. He remembered the exact look on the man's face as he had vowed to help Gabriel – an enemy who had caused him so much personal harm – yet in that moment was just another human being in need who Peter had taken it upon himself to help. He had been so strong, so caring as ever, so clueless to the shitstorm of agony and drama that he was walking right into.

  


Yet, despite everything... here he was now – just as he had promised to be. He had stayed true to his word, and _had_ helped Gabriel more than he could ever imagine. Just kind words and the warmth of his skin was enough to hold onto, enough to save him from slipping into the cavern of death and remorse and sin that hung constantly under Gabriel's shadow as a reminder of who he used to be. So instead of expressing his gratitude with a smile that wouldn't come, Gabriel lifted Peter's nearest hand to his mouth and pressed his lips lightly to the sensitive inside of the man's wrist.

  


*

  


Tingles flowed down his left arm and through his body, and Peter felt himself start to blush under such a sweet act. He was still unused to such attention, and wanted nothing more than to stop dusting off awful truths and horrid facts and pull Gabriel over him right here and now on the cold bathroom floor and cling to him until the world magically became good and everything was okay. But that was just avoidance – running away. And it wouldn't solve anything.

  


“I'm sorry. Again. For telling you this.” He huffed, gathering his senses from where the workings of Gabriel's mouth had scattered them. “I never wanted you to find out about Sylar. But I swear, I didn't know he was still alive until yesterday. I wasn't keeping that part from you.”

  


The kisses ceased at his wrist, and Gabriel swivelled his immense eyes over to Peter. “That's where you went yesterday.” It wasn't a question.

  


Peter bit his lips, bowing his head in a nod, and suddenly feeling far too exposed in this obscene state of undress when thinking about that murdering son of a bitch. “Yeah.”

  


“So... the mess you were in when you came back, _he_ did that to you?”

  


“Well it was kinda my own fault – I got distracted during the fight. Gave him the upper hand. You'd think I'd know by now never to run into a fight with him expecting not to get badly hurt, but... nope.”

  


*

  


“But why would you even do that? Why not just leave him alone?”

  


As soon as Peter ducked behind his still damp, stringy hair, Gabriel realised that this torture wasn't over. There was something else he still didn't know, more heartbreak to endure about the person he once was. Which of course he would, for Peter. Gabriel felt his blood draining as he watched the empath squirm, felt the man's pulse race in hand and saw the brief little flicker of nurse Petrelli fizzle and die, leaving behind only the battered, broken Peter from the past few days. Oh. So it was that bad, then? Apparently this was more than just the unwanted re-appearance of an old enemy. There was a crime involved too.

  


“What did he do, Pete?”

  


Droplets of water sprayed when Peter shook his head, then Gabriel watched his hairless chest convulse for enough air. “He-” then Peter puffed out a great breath. “It's a long story...” He scratched at his forehead the way he always did when contemplating how to express difficult news (with the hand that wasn't still pointedly in Gabriel's, and he cherished that), then finally pushed his hair back, ready for business. “I'm gonna have to start at the beginning. It's, uh... complicated.”

  


Gabriel shifted on the damp bath mat, although it was impossible to get comfortable in this position and when such news was about to be lowered into his incapable hands. He nodded wordlessly, mentally preparing himself to be stripped down and molested with more agonizing truths. He didn't want to know, he didn't think he could handle more. But his faith in Peter was as strong now as it had been that first night in his apartment, and Gabriel trusted that if Peter thought this information was necessary, then it must truly be.

  


“Uh...” Peter cleared his throat, face lifted and defiant. But although his eyes were on Gabriel, he was most certainly looking at something else, something far away. “'Kay. 'Kay, here goes.” He took another deep breath, fingers twitching slightly around Gabriel's. “A couple of months back, Sylar tried to become President. He was gonna kill the real President, shape-shift into him and live as him, and nobody would ever know.”

  


“But he didn't manage, obviously?”

  


“He got pretty fucking close to it, actually!” Peter laughed humourlessly, all bitter resentment.

  


“So what happened?”

  


“Me an....” Gabriel's heart wedged tightly in his throat at the look on Peter's face: as if he'd just remembered the most hollowing thing in the world. “Me an-and Nathan went to stop him. Sylar was shape-shifted into... _Nathan_ , at that point. Gonna use his position to get close to the President. All he needed was a handshake, and he'd become the most powerful person in America. Anyway...” He started picking at the loose thread again, his hand trembling. “Me and Nathan went to cut Sylar off, and we cornered him in a suite in the... the Stanton Hotel. In Washington. The three of us got into a big fight: Nathan distracting him by flying around, and me trying to get close enough to steal his ability... Anyway, it was all pretty rough, and somehow I _got_ his ability, and...”

 

He swallowed harshly, but his voice cracked on the next words, scooping out Gabriel's insides. “Nathan told me to run. To... “get goin' Pete... the world's countin' on you”... he said he was gonna hold Sylar back for longer. He wanted to make him sorry for impersonating him – you didn't know Nathan, but he _hated_ anyone taking anything that was his. You should've seen how mad he got when he found out someone had stolen his face!” Then Peter laughed, and despite himself Gabriel wildly hoped that this might turn out to be a happy story. Although he suspected he already knew where the end was headed.

  


Peter fell silent then, lost in memories of a better time, it seemed. Over the course of the story he had receded back into himself, curling up smaller and disappearing behind his long hair once more. It was only because Gabriel wondered if the man had forgotten where he was that he gently prompted. “Then what happened?”

  


*

  


“Then-” Peter squeaked, and promptly shut his mouth again. Fuck! He was sick to death of crying! He doubted he'd shed as many tears in his whole life as he had over the past two days, yet that didn't stop them from bubbling up and overflowing now. At least this time he didn't have to hold them back for fear of hurting his mother, he didn't have to hide them for fear of riling up the serial killer... there were no other obligations here: just himself, Gabriel, and Nathan's glaringly empty space.

  


He pressed the back of his hand over his mouth in an attempt to still his quivering lips, but his voice was so horribly choked when it grated out anyway. “Then he drew Sylar off and – and I did what he said and I... _left him_! I just left him there, _alone_ , when I should have stayed and helped him! Maybe I could have saved him...”

  


Gasping for breath, Peter harshly scrubbed at his eyes and nose and tried to be brave. But his last glimpse of the real Nathan Petrelli was haunting him, slapped over his vision and impossible to peel off. The way he'd smiled a little triumphant, self-assured smile like he'd known he was going to win... it hurt so badly, and Peter worried that he was disgusting Gabriel with his tears and snot and this weak tangle of heart and limbs masquerading as a fully functional person. So when his companion wordlessly tugged his hand free from Peter's, he was ready to grudgingly accept the crushing isolation that had become his oldest friend. But when two long arms wrapped around him, pulling him over to rest against a warm, beating, hairy chest, he only cried more out of gratitude.

  


*

  


Gabriel didn't know what to say. The actual words themselves hadn't been voiced, but the message only screamed louder in their absence. That man: the huge, powerful figure that Gabriel somehow imagined to have a different face to his own, had killed Peter's brother. And now the survivor's guilt was rotting away this man in his arms, therefore also killing Gabriel. The murky, guilty nastiness that had collected inside him over the past weeks in response to Nathan now made perfect sense. But that didn't stop it from tasting just as foul.

  


“You did the right thing, Peter. You did what he asked you to do. You were only doing what he wanted.” He soothed, his breath ruffling the top of Peter's hair while the other man's gasps heated his chest. He knew they were only words, and that they could never even fathom repairing the gaping canyon that Nathan had left behind.

  


Peter shook his head. “ _No_. I should've _stayed_. He would've wanted to _live!_ I could've done something! Or it should've been me instead... would've been better. ”

  


“Don't say that.” Gabriel said instantly. The thought alone was enough to chill his bloodstream. “It wouldn't have been better for _me_.”

  


Silence. Then, a tiny whisper, so faint that Gabriel missed it. “ _You wouldn't even be here._..”

  


The little man pushed himself away from Gabriel's chest, his hot fingers tight around Gabriel's upper arms. He looked around himself blindly while he blinked and sniffed furiously in a desperate attempt to haul himself back together. Even now, in a moment such as this, Gabriel took the time to admire the way that Peter cried in silent tears and little gasps of breath. His crying suited him perfectly: as self-conscious and restrained as the man himself.

  


Now the only bodily contact was between Gabriel's arms and the ten pads of Peter's fingertips. He wanted to pull Peter back down and rock him, but refrained. The guy was recuperating, so Gabriel sat patiently and let him.

  


*

  


“That's not everything...” Peter mumbled once he had a steady enough grasp on his sanity. It was agony to relive this, to say it aloud for the first time, but he had already clawed and pushed his way this far... “After... Nathan. Sylar found the President. But he didn't know that I'd found him first. It was our plan, mine and Nathan's... that I take shape-shifting from Sylar, then look like the President. A decoy. And when Sylar came to kill him it would actually be _me._ Well, it worked. Sylar locked himself in the back of the President's car with me... and I stuck him with a needle full of drugs to knock him out.”

  


He broke off, seeing Sylar's lost and helpless expression once more in his mind. It was the look that had coursed guilt through him ever since. Until yesterday. Now only loathing answered to the memory, and Peter resented every second he had spent feeling remorse for the man.

  


“So you saved the President, and the whole world from Sylar. Again.” Gabriel said, his fingers appearing on Peter's waist to knead his flesh gently. “Why don't you look pleased with that?”

  


_Fire. Smoke. Sylar._

 

“I didn't know what they were gonna do with him.” Peter said, allowing goosebumps to flare up from the points of Gabriel's touch. But they were disgust at himself and the rest of the guilty, not at the heavenly person here with him now. “At the time, they told me that they stuck a knife into the back of his head. The kill spot. Then we...”

 

_The heat, the smell, the perpetrators..._

 

“We burned a body that looked like Sylar. Thought it was him. We all gathered, those of us who had been wronged by Sylar in some way or another.” A full-body shiver ran through Peter then just thinking back to that fateful night. “It was supposed to stop him, for good. As far as I know there's no coming back from that. ...But they lied.”

  


“Who's “they”?” Gabriel implored gently.

  


“Noah Bennet, Matt Parkman and –” Peter scoffed, although he knew Gabriel had genuinely missed the ridiculousness of his question. “My mother. Who else?”

  


Just then a very haughty ringing floated through the bottom of the bathroom door. Peter didn't even need a clairvoyance ability to know who it was. Neither, apparently, did Gabriel. He scrutinised the irritated expression on Peter's face as he very deliberately let the call ring out. “She's probably worried about you. If she dreamt of last night's fight, maybe she saw you get hurt?”

  


“Maybe that wasn't the only thing she saw about last night...” Peter added darkly. Honestly, he wouldn't even be surprised if Angela was calling to scold him for sleeping with a man (not to mention this particular one!) rather than to express her concern over his yet-another-almost-death by Sylar's hand. He didn't want to hear her voice, it would be a _long_ time before he could forget what she'd done. “I really can't face a lecture right now.” He said, and both men waited in silence until the ringing stopped.

  


“Maybe it wasn't her? What if it's important?”

  


Peter held up a hand, still listening intently. Mere seconds later, the ringing started again, indignant and shrill this time. “It's her. And she can wait.” Turning his eyes back onto Gabriel's pure, oblivious face, Peter's stomach liquefied. He gripped tighter onto the man's arms for strength. After he told him the rest... would things ever be the same? “This is what's important. _You_ are what's important.”

  


*

  


Although, technically, that was a wonderful compliment, Gabriel almost wished that Peter would answer the call, so that the worst news that had seemingly been saved until last could be postponed. Just a little while longer. Just until he'd had enough of Peter... which of course would be never.

  


Peter cleared his throat. “The cremation... was just a distraction. It wasn't Sylar, it was a shape-shifter who we burned. His real body... Ma and the others hid it. Back in the hotel suite, aft-after Nathan...” There was only a momentary blip there, and Peter shone his wounded, hazel eyes into Gabriel's, seemingly determined to get all of this out before giving up. Angela called again, but it went unacknowledged this time. “Matt Parkman has the ability to control minds. He can plant thoughts, ideas... memories into people's heads. Make them believe things that aren't real. And Ma – she told me she forced Matt to use his ability on Sylar. To... to save Nathan.” Peter's voice tapered out, and his forehead crinkled as he stared so deeply into Gabriel, as if willing him to know the rest of the story without having to physically say it aloud.

  


But Gabriel was lost. The figures were adding up, but they weren't making sense. He knew that he was surfing on the precipice of a deadly fall, but he couldn't quite see the drop yet. His face crunched up as his dextrous mind flipped over all the details, but without the final pieces the map was worthless. “How?” He eventually whispered, and noticed the slump to Peter's shoulders as he accepted that he would have to be the one to break this news.

  


Peter un-clamped one hand to scratch at his chin, and that was the indicator that whatever was coming next was going to be the heavy hitter. “...Matt made Sylar think he was Nathan.” Then anger disfigured his voice, and he suddenly became fearsome. “He _turned him into_ Nathan. He – he planted Nathan's _memories_ , his _likes_ , _dislikes_ , his _secrets_ into that sick, twisted skull! Sylar shape-shifted into Nathan without knowing he had – and they all _lied_ about it! To me! To him! To everyone!” Peter seemed to be taking his wrath out on himself, gripping his own chin so tightly that his fingers shook with the pressure.

  


Seriously worried for his well-being, Gabriel gently took Peter's wrist and lowered his hand before the man pierced his skin with his nails. Perhaps he already had and his current regeneration ability had healed the wounds – Gabriel wouldn't be surprised. “And now Sylar is somehow _alive_ in Matt's body! Like, I dunno, like his consciousness was transferred and now he's stuck in there! And I know I should feel bad for Matt, but I can't help it – I almost feel like he deserves it! I'd rather Sylar was stuck with him than be free to hunt you dow-” Then Peter choked, suddenly looking terrified and guilty. “Uh, I mean... that was...”

  


... _'Hunt you down'_... “...He's looking for me?” Gabriel whispered, almost numb. It should have chilled him to the bone to know that he was a target of such a dangerous man, but it just sounded so ludicrous. Who would bother to hunt _him_ down?! He'd never done anything to anyone, he wasn't even worth the effort! Surely nobody would waste the time looking for him...?! But he could tell by Peter's reaction that that was just wishful thinking.

  


*

  


“Yeah.” Peter confessed, bobbing his head once. “He wants his body back, Gabriel. And... he read my mind. With Matt's ability. I tried to stop him but...” He dropped his gaze and suspected that Gabriel could probably feel his hand trembling. “I wasn't strong enough, I'm sorry. H-he knows where you are.”

  


It felt like one of the hardest things Peter had ever done to witness the exact moment that Gabriel seemed to realise that his days were numbered, that everything they had here was limited, and he was running on borrowed time. The man's face pinched and his great black eyebrows lifted above scared eyes. “What does that mean?”

  


Peter gnawed his lip so hard he tasted the metallic tang of blood wash over his tongue, then felt his skin neatly stitch back together. “I dunno. I dunno how long Matt will be able to hold him. Maybe weeks, months...” He swallowed. “But however long it takes, Sylar _will not_ give up... he's – he's going to come for you. But I promise, I won't let him hurt you! You don't need to be afraid.” He said strongly, when fear itself was just waiting to possess him if he slipped just a tiny bit. “Maybe you could hide? We don't have to just wait here for him.”

  


Gabriel frowned now, hiding his expressive eyes under his heavy brow. It was impossible for Peter to know what he was thinking that way. “No. I don't want to hide. I don't want to leave. I mean... I'm stronger than he is, right? I have the abilities...?” Hope, it turned out, was what he had been cooking up in that pensive moment.

  


Despite everything, Peter couldn't help the tiniest of sad smiles from lifting his lips at Gabriel's bravery and optimism. “Yeah you do. But he has Matt's. I don't think he has full control over it, but mind control makes him more dangerous than you could be. He doesn't even need to get close enough for you to use your abilities on him.”

  


*

  


Oh. So it was up, then? All of this... was over? He didn't want to think it or he'd likely just pass out right here from lack of breath.

  


“But don't worry!” Peter insisted. “I'll think of something, alright? There's no need to think about it right now. Matt's body is – uh – injured from the fight. It'll take a while before either he or Sylar can travel far, and even then he'll need to drive or fly. So I'd say we're pretty safe for today.”

  


“I hope so.” Gabriel breathed, allowing the warmth from Peter's body closeby to relax him a little. It was hard to believe that anything bad could get them while they sat here like this. Maybe that was just being foolish, but Gabriel was grateful for it. “I think Matt deserves to be stuck with Sylar, too. It's almost like karma for his actions. I don't think anyone would blame you for feeling that way after what he did to Nathan.”

  


Peter scoffed, looking tired and well worn out. “Yeah. And to you.”

  


*

  


The watchmaker's eyes narrowed just slightly as he tried to interpret the meaning of that statement, _just_ as Peter realised his mistake. “I'm sorry... I don't...?” Gabriel stammered.

  


Fuck. Yes he had been intending to broach this subject, but that was _not_ the way he'd meant to do it. But Peter knew this man was much too intelligent (and equipped with an in-built lie detector) to try to wiggle out of it. So now came the part he had been most dreading...

  


*

  


“ _Shit_...” Peter huffed, raking his hand through his hair.

  


“What is it you still haven't told me?” Gabriel coaxed, although his body felt like jelly and he didn't think he was capable of withstanding even more horrible information.

  


“I just... don't wanna hurt you.”

  


“You said you wouldn't hold back any more.” It _was_ going to hurt, he didn't doubt it, but more of this drawn-out anticipation would drive him crazy for sure. Gabriel blinked, and barely moved his lips to insist, “Tell me.”

  


The paramedic took a deep breath, his chest expanded and contracted. “Matt ripped Sylar's soul out. Put Nathan in his empty body instead. That man lived as Nathan for weeks.” And when he next looked upon Gabriel, all trace of rage at Matt Parkman and the injustice of this story had been replaced by his one, purest entity: _empathy._ “My real brother died _months_ ago, Gabriel. But I thought I'd spoken to him since then. Last time I saw him... was just before I met you. The day that you came into the world was the same day that Nath... that man left it. D'you – d'you understand?”

  


The silence fell stagnant between Peter's caramel whisper fading and Gabriel recovering the ability to speak. More ringing persisted from the other room. His voice was miniscule in force and volume, but Peter was so close that he must surely have heard every word. “Sylar's body... thought it was Nathan. Sylar's body... _my_ body...? So _I_... that was _me_...?”

  


Peter just nodded, his calm exterior _almost_ perfect, except for his betraying lower lip that sat squint on it's axis. “It's because of what Matt did to Sylar that... that you're the way you are. It was you I was talking to in the weeks since Washington. It's been you all along.”

  


The information hit Gabriel hotly, dripping over him with sickening speed and precision. He couldn't comprehend how it had taken him this long to work it out... this was a man who _fixed_ inconsistencies and faults in machinery day in and day out, yet he had somehow inconceivably missed the most glaringly obvious break in his own inner mechanism.

  


Gabriel had been known to think of himself as naïve, inexperienced and unworldly, but until now he had never thought of himself as stupid. It seemed so obvious now... he had two people merging and contrasting inside him, recollections of contradicting lives, memories of Peter that far surpassed the few years they had supposedly known each other... but in all his wildest fantasies: he'd never have imagined that he was just the discarded remnants of Peter's brother inside the man who had killed him. It wasn't exactly a standard thought.

  


It hurt to think it: he wasn't a just broken person, he wasn't even only an echo of a serial-killer, oh no... really he was nothing more than the mouldy left-overs of multiple other people, a watered down and incomplete version. And now that he knew this, it was all swarming over him, hot and sticky and constricting his airway

  


*

  


If it was possible, Gabriel looked even more lost and confused now than he had the first time Peter had laid eyes on him in this life. The man's eyes darted around unseeingly as he tried to comprehend, blinded by thoughts and crumbling away piece by piece. It was just like looking into the past, seeing his grimy, dirt-encrusted face while he shrunk into Dr Gibson's arms, tormented by the very first memory flashes of Peter's deaths. So, naturally, the empath gathered every ounce of his scattered wits and focused them into doing his best to help. Although, as he had admitted atop the bridge when everything had been easier: helping him wasn't just for Gabriel's benefit – it was for his own as well.

  


Gabriel had been plodding along so admirably while everyone else played with his fate. He had been unwittingly forced through such an ordeal, pushed and pulled, just a means to an end until he had finally been cast aside as if he had no worth. But he _did_ have worth! And he deserved to finally be gifted with the full picture of his existence. So Peter intended to give him everything he had to give.

  


Steeling himself, being brave only because Gabriel needed him to be, he carefully explained the events that had transpired between his reunion with “Nathan” after the fight in the Stanton Hotel: the way the “brothers” had hugged, overjoyed to know they'd _won_ and Sylar was finally _gone_ and they had both made it out alive! That they had promised to stay in frequent touch, especially after the whole fiasco with Building 26, and how they had mostly kept up that promise until the later weeks when they had inevitably drifted apart due to work and life getting in the way...

  


Peter remembered the glaring agony of having his own mind and personality torn away in Ireland, and how he had worried even after regaining his memories that some were still missing and he wasn't quite the same. It had taken a lot of time to slowly reassure himself that he wasn't without years of his life or lacking memories of people he cared about, and if he'd had someone back then to inform him of the parts of his life that he was unsure of, he would have gladly taken that help. So now he hoped that his information might fill in a few blanks and help Gabriel become more whole, but a tiny, selfish part of him needed this too. It was a kind of therapy to talk about Nathan with someone who understood, or at the very least safely stored every detail in his mind and seemed to see clearer after hearing each one. Gabriel needed to be completed and Peter held the last piece of the puzzle. In a way it felt like honouring Nathan – like by just reliving these meaningless conversations and inside jokes, he would somehow remain more alive.

  


Peter cried some more, of course. Gabriel cried with him. Peter's phone rang stubbornly throughout, and was just as stubbornly ignored. The men succumbed to a blubbering, snottering mess of painful laughter and heartache and just plain feeling sorry for themselves, but at least they were together. Gabriel gushed endless apologies for inadvertently killing Nathan and countless other people, and Peter dismissed those thoughts and blame and broke down more at remembering it all over again.

  


The men clung to each other, embarrassed at the state of their own faces and laughing at each other's. Somewhere along the line the towel became defiled by tears and snot and was subsequently thrown aside, and Peter and Gabriel ended up lying side by side, half on the bathmat, half on the icy tiles, not touching at all – just facing one another and letting their tears drip onto the floor until they eventually ceased.

  


By now the steam from that morning's shower had fully dissipated, leaving behind only the slightest fog clinging to the mirror, blurring the men's reflections.

  


“So... am I _Nathan_?” Gabriel croaked, his voice like gravel on a washboard.

  


Peter's heart broke for the hundredth time in two days, but the torture being repeated hadn't eased the pain at all. “No.” He said, certain of it, reaching over and squeezing Gabriel's clammy fingers so tightly he might have cut off the blood flow. “I know my brother. You're not him. You're _you_.”

  


“But... if he's in there... maybe you could get him back? Maybe I could rescue him? What if I could give him back to you?”

  


Peter shook his head forcefully, staying far from even allowing the idea to trick him. “That wasn't Nathan, as much as I wish it could be. He died in Washington.” It was true, he knew that. But he also knew painfully well that if it had been _anyone_ else offering him even a ghost of his brother's life back in exchange for theirs, he'd have jumped on it in a heartbeat.

  


Gabriel sniffed his blocked nose once again, and Peter took the time to admire how quickly his face had unflushed and the puffiness around his eyes had receded. He could tell by the lack of tenderness on his own skin that regeneration had kicked in it's handy clean-up factor on him too. He made a mental note to be holding this ability next time he cried, and spare himself the blotchiness and discomfort of which he had endured now for too many hours in a row. He envied Claire right then, blessed with the power to always look alright again within seconds and wished he was lucky enough to ever have her always pristine, one-tear-and-that's-all crying.

  


Peter rubbed away the tightening tracks on his cheeks with the back of his hand, then settled back down with his head on tile to blink into Gabriel's immense, wet eyelashes. “But...” The watchmaker pondered, plush lips pursed in a little “o” as he waited for the rest of the thought to catch up to him. “I have his memories. Shards of his soul left over. Maybe it would work? I could fix all your problems, and really make a difference. I mean, what am I now? Nothing. But if I became Nathan... let him take over...”

  


“Yeah, you have parts of him in you. You also have parts of Sylar, but you're not _him_. You're not Nathan, either. You're as much my brother as you are that psychopath – and you're nothing like him.” Peter said firmly, leaving no space to argue this. He extended his hand and tickled his curled knuckles over the man's cheek, wiping away the only remnants of the recent hysterics on an otherwise immaculate visage. “You're your own person. You're Gabriel Gray. And I wouldn't change that for anything.”

  


*

  


A stupid grin split Gabriel's face, and tingles not unlike Peter's borrowing ability heated him from the faint brush of contact to his cheek. Really, he shouldn't be smiling. He should be bawling his eyes out after discovering what he just had about himself. Yes okay – _technically_ he had already just done that, but it still felt almost inconsiderate of him to smile at a time like this. Maybe he had gone so far around the spectrum of emotions that he had started at the beginning again? Maybe there was a rational explanation for his mood swings, and he was just too wrung-out to see it at the moment?

  


Or maybe he was just infatuated by this beautiful little naked man, and there was no other explanation. And that was okay.

  


Peter puffed out a breath and the air rippled across Gabriel's neck. “God, how did we get here, huh? I used to think my life was so complicated pulling triple shifts at work and trying to dodge Noah Bennet's attempts to get me to join the new Company.” He laughed coldly, rolling onto his back and looking up at the damp-speckled ceiling. “Now everything's a mess.” He sighed again, and Gabriel just watched him sadly. What could he really say to that? Then Peter tipped his head round again, watching Gabriel's features with such intensity that the man suddenly became very aware of his nakedness. “If you could have anything in the world... what would it be?”

  


As always, Gabriel accepted the question and took his time to conceive the perfect answer. He put heart and (the parts that were actually his own) soul into the next three words. “I'd have you.”

  


Peter's lips tugged up, as if readying to laugh at a joke that he didn't quite understand. “You _have_ me.”

  


But Gabriel shook his head, allowing his imagined paradise to drip off his tongue like the sweetest honey. “I mean I'd have you all to myself, Peter. No Noah Bennets, no Matt Parkmans, no constant calls from angry mothers... no noisy cars, no rude neighbours... just you and me. Alone. With the whole world to ourselves. Forever.”

  


Peter's eyes widened slightly over the course of Gabriel's lament, but so did his smile. He looked infected by the idea, excited by all of that prospective freedom. “Wow. No obligations, no one to disappoint... where do I sign up?” He laughed one of his lovely husky hiccuping laughs, and it was even more beautiful than Gabriel had remembered since he'd heard it last. It felt like years ago.

  


His favourite lock of Peter's fringe was curving over his face, dry now. So Gabriel reached over and ran his fingertips over the smooth texture, enjoying this simple pleasure. He started petting the other man's hair, stroking it through his fingers and tucking it back repeatedly behind Peter's ear, where it refused to stay put. It would have been difficult not to notice the blush creeping up the little man's face at being the subject of affectionate pampering (even if his cheeks hadn't been scorching hot underhand), but Gabriel expected that his own face would be even more red.

  


He finished his grooming and pulled back, better to see the man's face. “What would you have?” He asked, heart still pounding after spilling that huge, passionate secret, and eagerly awaiting Peter's reply. He dared to hope for a tragically romantic wish that would make Gabriel's seem like nothing more than a mere dream inside one man's head...

  


“I'd have Nathan back.” Oh. Of course. Gabriel shouldn't have expected anything else, and embarrassment caught him now due to running away with himself. He dragged his mind away from the amazing fantasy world of his creation and back to this present, more important matter.

  


“There must be something you can do? If the version of Nathan inside me isn't _real_ Nathan... You said that Claire's blood – _my_ blood – heals?”

  


Peter's eyes closed briefly, painfully. “It's too late. It's been too long since he...”

  


“Well what about time-travel? Go back in time and stop Nathan from going into that room.” Gabriel raised his eyebrows to externally encourage his striving confidence in this idea even though, truly, it made him sick. But it was what Peter wanted most in the whole entire world, and Gabriel only wanted to make him happy.

  


But the empath just shook his head again, dislodging that same disobedient lock of hair from behind his ear. “I can't.”

  


“Why not?”

  


Tender fingers appeared on the back of Gabriel's neck, drawing little circles into the heated flesh. “If I go back and save Nathan, if I _change_ the past... then I wouldn't have you.”

  


Gabriel almost burst into more tears right then and there. It was most definitely surprise that blocked his tear ducts and held him steady, not self-restraint. That meant... Peter would sacrifice his beloved brother... for...

  


*

  


Peter watched with his pulse throbbing in every nerve ending while Gabriel seemed to choke over his words. “You would _really_... choose _me_ over Nathan...?”

  


The downright ripeness of the shock and inferiority in the man's eyes only further cemented Peter's decision. He held tighter onto Gabriel's neck, massaging with his fingers to gain confidence as well as instil it. “I don't really wanna think of it as one or the other... I still can't believe he's really gone! But... yeah. Guess so. Nathan had a pretty great life: his dream job, power, popularity, a beautiful wife, kids, lots of money... pretty much everything he ever wanted.” He smiled, pleased that it was true, at the very least. “But now it's your turn to live, Gabriel. I could never take that away from you.”

  


“But...” Gabriel seemed to have trouble controlling his lips, and his voice came out a little muffled. “He's your _brother_! The most important person in your life – you've said so!”

  


Spurned on by the man's flabbergasted response, Peter didn't bother trying to hide the besotted smile that possessed his mouth and voice. “I loved Nathan. More than I've ever loved anyone else my entire life. Probably more than I'll ever love like that again... but that doesn't mean that Nathan cared for me as much as I cared for him. Honestly, sometimes he could be such a jerk. Although I never hated him for it, that's just how he was. But _you_...” He stopped to steal a tight little breath. “You're different. You're the first person to ever make me feel worth something... special.”

  


Gabriel blinked twice, and Peter couldn't help but chuckle at his expression. “I know! It sounds crazy: I have superhuman abilities, I've saved the world before... but none of that matters between us. And I've never felt as good as I do when it's just the two of us hanging out watching movies. That's kinda fucked up, huh?” He laughed some more, his shoulders shaking and the cold tiles biting even more uncomfortably into his side.

  


“No.” Gabriel breathed, and his neck grew even hotter to touch.

  


“I guess it's just... nice. To not have to constantly strive to prove myself for you to like me. You're the first person I can remember being close with who isn't interested in me for my parents' money, or an association with the family name, or my _abilities_! And that's just really... cool. So thank you.” A heartfelt, honest smile split his face, and he enjoyed watching Gabriel churn over that new information.

  


*

  


The watchmaker had no idea how to word his reply. He was still reeling from the knowledge that Peter would actually _choose him_ over his brother, and that on top of the rest of the impossibly sweet confession had successfully turned his brain into a soggy, sappy pile of papier-mâché to match the soggy, sappy state of his heart. There were so many things he wanted to say, and so he naturally took a long while to mull them all over, in order to wheedle out the best one.

  


Peter's eyes crinkled further as he watched Gabriel struggle, and eventually saved him from his never-ending plight by scooting closer and pulling his head forward. Grateful for this change in direction, Gabriel closed his eyes as their faces met and felt Peter's hot tongue curl into his mouth, teasing his own just the way he needed. It was gorgeous, intoxicating, and just where Gabriel wanted to be. The men wrapped arms around each other not for the first time in recent hours, and awkwardly cuddled on the cramped, hard ground.

  


Gabriel couldn't imagine a better way to obliterate that morning's stress and upset, and all of the vile flavour of painful truths was washed away by the delicious fire that coursed through his veins. This embrace, this kiss, this _man_ , all promised to make things better... at least for a little while... until all of this refuge was torn open and stolen away from him forever by the infamous silhouette called Sylar.

  


Regretfully, Gabriel pulled back for air while he still had some control over his brain function (the little amount that was left, that was). “Shouldn't we try to come up with a – a plan or something? To stop Sylar?” It would probably be the sensible thing to do to work out a strategy or backup plan before just losing themselves in avoidance and blissful reprieve once again. Gabriel knew this, but he couldn't help but hope that Peter's answer would consist of close physical contact more than words.

  


“What kind of plan? We don't even know what he intends to do.” Peter sighed, his breath tickling Gabriel's mouth from only centimetres away. “I dunno how he thinks he can reclaim his body, or if it's even possible.” He frowned, and his tense form fidgeted nervously against Gabriel's front, succeeding in scattering even more of his logical thinking. “I guess, in the meantime... as much as I don't wanna include her in this, I can ask my mother to keep an eye on him. She can tell us if she sees anything. Kinda like a guard dog that can dream the future.”

  


“I think I'd rather tackle a real guard dog over her any day.” Gabriel smirked, amused by the thought of Sylar trying to challenge this woman that Peter had talked about so. He didn't envy the guy, that's for sure.

  


A tiny, empathetic peck was pressed to Gabriel's lips, and Peter nuzzled his nose softly. “We don't have to worry about it just now.” Another peck, infuriatingly light. “But whatever happens, I won't let him near you.”

  


Gabriel's stomach somersaulted and he couldn't be sure if that was due to the looming threat of an unseen villain haunting him, or due to Peter pushing him over onto his back, straddling his hips and kissing him again with increasing fervour.

  


*

  


So much thinking was too heavy for one sitting, and Peter was well and truly talked out. He ached for Gabriel and how the man must be feeling after having everything dumped on him the way he had. Peter craved to help him, to make him happy and erase the pain of the last hour or so... And although he doubted that the creeping dread of Sylar's inevitable reappearance would ever truly cease, everything felt so much better when he could be held and satisfied by this other man while gladly returning the favour. Peter Petrelli had always believed there was so much more to life than sex, and even if that was only because he had learned to live without it for so long, he still stuck by that mentality. There _was_ so much more – too much that it couldn't bear thinking about.

  


But he had also always been a strong believer in simple pleasures and the little moments in life being the best ones. And although this situation couldn't exactly be labelled as “simple” or “small”, he was happy to live _simply_ within the four compact walls of this _small_ room with Gabriel for the better part of the next hour or three...

  


But Gabriel, it seemed, was still grasping after the fading ends of the conversation. “Maybe I could train up a bit? Learn to fight and keep us safe...?” He muttered against Peter's lips, his warm hands roaming over the small of Peter's back, pulling him closer.

  


“Mm-mm.” The empath mumbled, shaking his head slightly. He admired Gabriel's courage, but encouraging him into violence for any means, let alone for Peter's sake, was _not_ an option he was even going to consider. He was determined to keep Gabriel sweet and honest and gentle, and if that meant Peter had to do all the fighting, he would gladly take up that mantle. Later. Because he had more enjoyable plans for today...

  


“That's enough talking for now... just stay here with me for a while...” He whispered from an inch above the other man, shining a smile at Gabriel that he hoped conveyed how honoured he felt to be there right then. He stroked a hand down that angled cheek and curved jaw and watched goosebumps rise up on the man's neck in response.

  


*

  


“What?” Gabriel asked, almost embarrassingly high-pitched as he recognised the full intensity of the passion burning in Peter's eyes. “You want to do it right _here?_ ” He raised his eyebrows and Peter chuckled in response.

  


“Is that a problem?” Gabriel watched the damaged lip pull taut and felt the usual accompanying flutter in his stomach at seeing the little thing in action. Did it really matter that the room was barely long enough for Gabriel to lie down in? Or that they would likely both get bruises from the hard floor that regeneration would only ease away later? Not really.

  


“No.” He grinned madly, feeling again that little bit of guilt at having the nerve to smile on such a day as this. But the scent and weight of Peter's body and the compassion of his mouth eradicated that guilt and stomped on it firmly. So many wounds had been formed today, so it seemed only right that they took this time to soothe them, really. Surely they deserved this...?

  


The room quickly got hot and steamy again as fingers linked against the tiles and a hefty amount of kisses were gifted between the pair. Gabriel treasured Peter's damaged lip: he sucked the hot flesh between his own lips, savoured it, kneaded gently with his teeth, incredibly fond of the little trooper who, a bit like himself, faced each day broken with no hope of repair. How was it that such a little assortment of blood, muscle and nerves could make living an impaired life look so appealing whereas Gabriel, a human being, was just hopeless at it? But he didn't care, he didn't begrudge this man or his delicious lip: he was just happy to be here and feeling so amazingly blessed that this liaison could continue in spite of what had happened, and what was yet to come.

  


*

  


It had almost worked. The euphoric cushion of lust and adrenaline had dulled Peter's perception, and he had almost managed to trick himself into forgetting about everything else. Until his phone rang. Again.

  


He stilled in his smooches, every muscle tightening as the pompous ringing dragged him further and further out of the cocoon that he and Gabriel had created here. Somehow this time (probably due to being caught in this rather tantalizing position) it wasn't as easy to just ignore it. Reluctantly, he broke his lips from Gabriel's and looked in the direction of the other room.

  


“Answer it.” Gabriel said after a poignant pause, apparently against the wishes of his frustrated and needy body.

  


“You don't mind?” Peter asked, half fishing for an excuse not to further break the moment.

  


“You won't be able to relax until you've talked to her.”

  


*

  


He knew it was true, as inconvenient as the timing was. Without even needing Peter's answer, Gabriel held out a hand and summoned the damn phone to him telekinetically. It had almost rang out, but Peter steeled himself and took the thing, screwing up his face and holding it to his ear. Gabriel amused himself by tracing patterns in the guy's chest and stomach, occasionally prodding his ticklish spots and enjoying the accompanying squirming.

  


“Yeah...? Yeah... No, I thought you might... Well I'm fine, Ma.... I said I'm _fine_... why does it- well why- it doesn't even... regeneration. ...Yeah. Maybe a heads up would've been nice, now that you mention it...”

  


Gabriel kindly desisted in his playful distractions and instead just waited awkwardly, trying not to listen to Peter talking to his mother while sitting atop him naked. At least they hadn't properly started anything, or Gabriel would definitely have blushed himself to death by Angela's mere inclusion in the scene. Peter's fingers clenched and unclenched on Gabriel's side as he listened down the line, staring off into nothing with a distinctly displeased expression.

  


“Listen, why are you calling, Ma? I'm fine. I'm still alive. And you knew that already. Yeah I actually _am_ busy, so can we make this quick?”

  


Another blush surely turned Gabriel scarlet, and he was certain that somehow Angela had eyes through the phone and could see them right now. Half of him cringed and withered away, while the other half swaggered around smugly. But then Peter's hand tightened more over his ribs, and this time it was actually painful. Hurt rolled over the man's pretty face, and he chewed his still pink and slightly swollen lips. Gabriel's heart skipped a beat and he rubbed little encouraging circles into Peter's hips to no response. The guy was too engrossed in whatever his mother had said.

  


The empath closed his eyes and nodded, a pointless motion during a phone call, and disentangled himself from Gabriel, still looking at nothing and no one in particular. The watchmaker remained still and silent as he watched Peter clamber to his feet and trudge through to the other room on his familiar bandy-legged stride. Brilliant... more bad news. Just what they needed.

  


He assumed it would be inappropriate to intrude further on the conversation, so decided to wait here and tried his hardest not to listen to Peter's faint, tight voice floating through the open crack in the door. He barely spoke, just more short-winded answers delivered in a clipped, dejected tone. “'Kay... sure. ...Whatever, it's your idea... Yeah. Yeah, I  _do_... 'Kay. ...'Course. See you then.” The long silence that stretched after led Gabriel to believe that Peter had hung up the phone, and so he assumed it would be okay to seek him out now.

  


Despite himself and the beautiful night they'd spent together and everything that Peter had said, Gabriel still prepared himself to find the apartment empty and his friend gone. But no, there he was: standing by the bed and facing away, hand fisted in his hair.

  


“What did she say?” Gabriel asked quietly, worried that Peter was crying again. But when he turned at Gabriel's voice, his face was dry but pale.

  


“Uh...” Peter cleared his throat and gestured a hand to where his phone lay discarded on Gabriel's bed. “Nathan. She's set up a... a cover. Accident – the vacation. Funeral's in three days.”

  


“Oh.” Gabriel said stupidly. He felt wretched, selfish (for hoping that they could have continued their pre-call escapade) and helpless all over again. The other man's shattered emotions were palpable rising from his sad little body, and he looked at a loss of what to do with himself. “I'm sorry.” Gabriel whispered, knowing how much Peter craved touch and affection, especially when vulnerable, and he was certainly that now. So Gabriel crossed to him and enveloped him in a long, sincere hug.

  


Peter leant into Gabriel, eyes still dry and voice impressively steady. “Will you come with me?” He asked gruffly, his stubble tickling Gabriel's shoulder. The taller man nodded, knowing only that he wanted to be there to provide comfort and support if Peter needed it and not even thinking through the rather complicated implications of his promise...

  


“Of course I will.”

  


***

  


The pair spent almost every minute together over the next two days. Gabriel contacted Peter's work to call in some personal time off, because Peter knew he didn't have the strength to do it himself. Now that Gabriel had braved the world a few times already, he agreed to fly back and forth between the two men's apartments, and even went into the take-out shop with Peter to collect their orders on the journey.

  


The days passed in a blur of “I'm sorry for your loss” texts from people Peter hadn't even heard from in months, and frequent calls from his mother over arrangements and details of the funeral. And all the while Gabriel stayed with him, and Peter couldn't have been more grateful for his presence.

  


He was still in denial. He didn't want to think that he would soon be burying his big brother's body, or that all hope that this whole thing was just a nightmare would be cast aside for good. A part of him, no matter how “foolish” or “naïve” or whatever-the-fuck people were calling it, still dreamed that Nathan wasn't truly gone.

  


On the evening before the funeral, Peter had reluctantly collected his black suit from the dry cleaners, having left it so late in hopes he wouldn't need it. He kicked the front door open easily, arms laden with the suit. “Okay, it's _done._ Can you stop going on about it n-?” But then he froze as he caught a movement out the corner of his eye in his bedroom. It wasn't Gabriel as he had expected – he was accustomed to the man's gentle gait and graceful movements – this was someone else. In his apartment.

  


The freshly pressed suit slid out of Peter's grasp to the ground, his fingers suddenly devoid of feeling. He just stood there, staring openly, unable to believe his eyes as much as he desperately wanted to more than anything else in the world. It was a miracle his voice even came out at all. “N... _Nathan_...?!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, please let me know what you think ^.^ 
> 
> I'm sorry for the delay in posting, but it's been difficult to find the time to write recently (as much as I want to!) I would have loved to post multiple chapters as usual, but I thought it would be better to get some more of the story up now rather than wait for even longer. I hope to get the next few chapters up soon, but I can't promise any exact time :) Thank you so much for reading!


	13. For Nathan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this is a dream then Peter would choose to sleep for years, for the thought of waking from this paradise is enough to break him all over again...

Chest heaving, Peter stumbled back over his own feet which felt suddenly enormous and in the way. He spared a wild thought to whether regeneration would prevent his likely heart attack altogether, or just heal it after the suffering and dying had already commenced a couple of times over. He hoped it was the first option, as his ribcage felt dangerously close to bursting open when the other man jumped and turned at the sound of Peter's voice.

  
  


The unexpected figure looked appropriately shocked, lost in his surroundings and unnatural in jeans and a plain t-shirt instead of a more fitting crisp suit. But there was no denying... it was Nathan Petrelli.

  
  


“Pete!” He hissed, staring back at Peter as intensely as the younger brother gaped at the elder. For a long while nothing happened while both men waited for the other to talk first. What the _fuck_ was going on...?! How was this even possible?! The shock had blown all reasonable thought from Peter's mind, and he was wavering, feeling faint, verging on the edge of collapse... And then he jumped over the now crumpled suit on the ground, flew at his brother and bowled into him in the tightest hug he had ever given in his life.

  
  


“Wha- _how_ \- _How_ are you...?!” He stuttered into the crook of Nathan's neck, comfy and familiar and smelling just the same as it always had. “Is... is this _real_?!” He whispered, unsure if he even wanted to know. If this was a dream then just let him sleep for years, for the thought of waking from this paradise was enough to break him all over again. He _was_ reasonably certain that he was awake – the long queue at the dry cleaners had felt painstakingly real at least, but he still couldn't quite get a grasp on reality. He would have been wailing like a baby for sure if he hadn't been so taken off guard by the whole thing. Snuggling in deeper, Peter kissed his brother's neck then shoulder, warm and solid through the thin cotton of the t-shirt, before clinging on only tighter. “ _Am I dreaming_...?”

  
  


But Nathan hadn't reciprocated the embrace, and hadn't said another word. He, too, seemed shocked dumb by Peter's sudden arrival. Then finally, wonderfully, he returned the hug: resting his hands lightly on the younger brother's back as if he was afraid to touch much more than that. “No.” He sighed, and actually hearing his voice aloud cut off Peter's air supply. “You're not dreaming.” The men rocked on the spot, reunited and clasped around each other so tightly it was almost obscene, yet that was only due to the strength of the love that Peter looped over and around his brother and tied them tighter together with. Finally, yet also much too soon, Nathan gently unlatched the younger brother and guided him off.

  
  


The words had processed reassuringly through Peter's mind but it was the body language that set alarm bells chiming instantly. Like a sharp needle shoved forcefully into a balloon, his delighted reverie was popped and the happiness rushed out steadily. “Nathan? What is it?” He uttered through numb lips, holding his brother at arm's length to examine him better. He couldn't believe it had been weeks since he'd last set eyes on that face. He could recognise every tiny detail perfectly, as he always had been able to, right down to the scar under his chin that Peter could remember seeing raw and new for the first time all those years ago.

  
  


He would know Nathan anywhere... which was why everything suddenly seemed off. The senator shuffled on the spot anxiously, avoiding eye contact and exuding a sense of shame and guilt that Peter had never once even seen him acknowledge before. Something was wrong: Nathan would never let fear show on the outside – not to mention the incredible lack of his usual Petrelli hugs and brotherly touching was more than out of character.

  
  


Then finally, so late that it had surely been saved as a punishment for having the nerve to believe in the first place, the truth hit Peter with painful clarity. His fingers dug into the strong arms of his brother in a vain attempt to keep hold of him even as his voice scraped from his suddenly dry throat. “...Gabriel?”

  
  


*

  
  


It took a long while before he summoned the courage to reply. “Yes.” He closed his eyes and nodded, but by then he had already felt Peter let go and shuffle back a few steps.

  
  


When Gabriel eventually pried his eyelids open, his friend was slouched on the end of the bed, hands on his knees and his head bowed. “I'm... I'm really sorry Peter!” Mortified, Gabriel gushed, wanting to reach out and touch him but afraid of the consequences. “I didn't mean for this – I can explain!”

  
  


“Please change back.” Peter said dully, and the lack of emotion hurt more than rage or even tears would have done. Peter Petrelli needed emotion like other people need oxygen, and so without any trace of that – surely he wasn't surviving at all?

  
  


Gabriel quickly shed Nathan's appearance, and when he next spoke it was his own voice that filtered weakly into the room. “I'm so sorry!” He squeaked. “I was just practising! I didn't think you'd be back for a while, I didn't want you to see me like that – I swear! It wasn't planned, I didn't mean to upset you.” Surely Gabriel would be haunted for the rest of his eternal life by the heartbreaking look on Peter's face when he'd rushed over to who he thought was his beloved big brother risen from the dead. Gabriel felt sick at himself. After _everything_ the amazingly resilient man had already been through: all the mind-trips involving his brother and this wretched, cursed body, how could this _not_ tip him over the edge?! “Please believe me, Peter.” Gabriel begged, feeling two inches tall and paper thin.

  
  


*

  
  


“I do.” Peter croaked out, still watching his hands shaking on his knees rather than wash away Nathan's face from his vision with the sight of someone else's. He could still feel the warmth of his brother, could still smell his skin... Disappointment had never weighed this heavy in his life, and his bones were breaking under the pressure of it. What the hell had he been thinking?! Of course it had been too good to be true.

  
  


*

  
  


Nervously, Gabriel scuffed into the other room and picked up Peter's fallen suit, dense in his hands from so much more than good fabric, then placed it gently on the bed beside it's owner. He smoothed out the arms and legs, trying his best to ensure there were no crinkles. “I don't even know why I chose him, I was just running through the different people who were... well, already _there_. I would've changed back as soon as you saw me, but...” He trailed off. It would probably only hurt Peter more to say it. For a moment too long Gabriel had wondered if maybe Peter could use that time to say goodbye to Nathan, in a way. But by the time he had decided against it, it had been too late. He hadn't expected for the youngest Petrelli to think it was real, and now wished he could rewind time or possibly even remove the memory from Peter's head to spare him the pain. But of course he couldn't, so the old-fashioned way would have to do. “Please say something. Are... are you mad?”

  
  


A puff of breath, possibly a laugh, came from Peter's torturously unreadable back. He shook his dark hair while dismay unfurled from his shoulders like fog.

  
  


*

  
  


“No. I'm not mad.” He scrubbed his hands over his thighs, scratching his nails into the denim of his jeans as he attempted to pull himself back together. Loss and humiliation was burning through him and all at once the unfurnished, open-plan apartment felt much too small and constricting. Not only had he embarrassed himself, but he had also opened up the final guard that had been weakly protecting his soul. He had been foolish, careless, blinded by hope... only to receive the most winding, crushing punch when his defences had been down.

  
  


Now he needed to _do_ something, to _go_ somewhere – anywhere – that didn't ring with the renewed absence of Nathan.

  
  


Even before deciding on a plan of action, his body fumbled blindly for auto-pilot and he rose to his feet. Cheeks still burning and unable to look at the other man, he shouldered his way past and out of the bedroom. “I need some air...”

  
  


*

  
  


Fear gripped Gabriel then – the horrific thought that Peter was running away and he'd never see him again began clouding up his vision. However, merciful and thoughtful as ever, the empath hesitated before reaching the front door. He swivelled awkwardly on his heels, not quite making eye contact as he purposely stalled only with the intention to soothe Gabriel's terror. “I won't go far.”

  
  


“Okay...” Gabriel wheezed as air flew back into his relaxing lungs. “Just... take your time.” He said only because something else needed to be said and 'don't leave me' would come across as selfish and clingy when he knew that Peter needed this time alone after what had just happened. He regretted it instantly – what if Peter interpreted 'take your time' as hours or days? Gabriel wondered if twenty minutes or so was an unreasonable amount to hope for.

  
  


The paramedic nodded, crossed the rest of the apartment in silence and was gone. As soon as the door snicked shut behind him, to Gabriel it didn't matter that the guy was just on the other side of the wooden panel – it felt like the other side of the planet. Instantly he began to fret now that he had the privacy to do so. He had never felt so alone in this vacant, empty apartment, and he could hear that same fucking analogue watch with the broken glass somewhere in the room keeping count of every single passing second of Peter's absence and taunting him with them.

  
  


So much was currently heaped upon the pair, and it was safe to say they were struggling to balance the weight of it. There was the impending funeral in the morning, the deranged serial-killer who they had both been having nightmares of for nights now (Gabriel knew this was true even though Peter had never admitted it – the little man's tossing and turning in his sleep and scathing murmurs of ' _Sylar_ ' interrupted his own restless dreams), and now this... the unimaginably cruel tease of Nathan's resurrection when Peter was at his most vulnerable.

  
  


And now, instead of choosing valued touch and physical comfort, Peter had opted for the very opposite. Gabriel had no clue what he should do, how long was too long to wait, or if he had a legitimate need to worry here. He was uncomfortably familiar with past Petrelli actions spawned by heat-of-the-moment decisions, and the only thing he could think was that he wouldn't allow _this_ to be the cause for another one. He wouldn't allow his mistake to hurt that too damaged, too sensitive soul more than it was already wounded.

  
  


So, in the meantime he did as he often did when in doubt: decided to trust Peter Petrelli. The man needed air, some space, time alone... then Gabriel would give it to him. For another eighteen minutes and twenty four seconds anyway...

  
  


***

  
  


He let out a frustrated sigh that was grabbed and carried away by the wind. “Okay... yup. ...Fine. Thanks, Ma. Yeah... yeah I _do_ know it...” Peter chewed his lip, seriously considering _not_ saying it back... but how could he possibly deprive her of that under these circumstances? “Love you too.” He mumbled, closing his eyes. It still hurt to say it so soon after everything that had happened. “I know. See you.” He cut off the call and raked a hand through his windswept hair, looking out upon the city – his home – as the sun disappeared behind the towering buildings and stretched amber beams through the streets like fingers.

  
  


He shifted a little on the hard, uncomfortable brick and calmly looked down the immense drop of the side of the building. His usual lack of vertigo had gotten him into trouble before, yet Peter was grateful for it. Currently he was sitting curled up in a little ball on the raised wall encasing the rooftop, mere centimetres from losing his balance if he even twitched wrong. Somehow he never felt as serene as he did when perched precariously over a shockingly deadly fall. Besides, the view was fantastic... it had been so long since he'd been up here, and he'd almost forgotten that he'd chosen the apartment mostly for the roof.

  
  


He breathed in and out deeply, allowing the refreshing height and cool air to cleanse him, and listened to the sounds of life mulling around the city below him. Sirens, voices and car horns floated up to greet him, and Peter watched humbly from this secluded spot atop the world.

  
  


Then he almost toppled over the edge when an unexpected voice startled him out of nowhere.

  
  


“Please don't jump.”

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel was only half-joking: the hunched, sad little shape of his only companion balanced on the edge of the rooftop (especially under these circumstances) was not exactly a welcoming sight. He held his breath as Peter turned to look at him and his lips twisted up at the working corner.

  
  


“I'm not gonna _jump_.”

  
  


“Good... just checking.” Gabriel let out his breath. “So you weren't just saying your last goodbyes to your mother?” He teased, inching a few steps closer across the open platform.

  
  


“C'mon, be realistic: if she knew I was gonna jump she'd be over here in an instant with her unwitting army of slaves to catch me at the bottom.” He chuckled dryly, then the rooftop fell silent. Peter suddenly seemed to notice he was still holding his phone, and lofted it slightly before tucking it away in his pocket. “She was calling about tomorrow. She's... upset. As she should be... she said she just wanted to make sure I was gonna be there. She also wanted to let me know that she's been taking regular naps, just in case, and said there's no sign of Sylar or Matt yet. So the coast should be clear for the... for Nathan.”

  
  


Gabriel nodded, relieved that at least one of the looming threats was lifted to allow another to commence. He scooted a little bit closer, until he was now standing within touching distance of Peter (not that he would ever dare reaching for him in case he accidentally knocked the guy over the edge of the building), but it was comforting just to be close.

  
  


Peter averted his face, looking away from Gabriel and out over the city again. “How'd you find me anyway?” He asked, but it was only curiosity, not an accusation. The thrill of crouching on a rooftop, although scaring the hell out of Gabriel, seemed to have at least settled the smaller man. He was definitely not as uptight as he had been back in the apartment.

  
  


“You always seek out the most ridiculously high ledge whenever you need time to yourself.” Gabriel shrugged, presenting this knowledgeably while conveniently ignoring the part where he had opened the forbidden latch and scoured openly through his collection of Nathan's memories to find this information.

  
  


Since discovering the truth of his past those days ago while on the bathroom floor, it had been sufficiently harder to block out the parts of his past selves. Memories arose at the slightest phrase or sight and pestered him to be looked at, but he had made an internal vow not to delve into them unless it was an emergency. He didn't want to lose more of himself in those other people, and worried that dipping his toes into their lives would swallow him up whole. But today was different, this could _almost_ be classed as an emergency: he had only broken open the seal on Nathan's file out of fear of losing Peter forever. It hadn't been a difficult choice to come up to the roof of his apartment building after piecing the bits together. The guy had always had a rather idiotic head for heights along with the courage and naivety to cater to it, after all.

  
  


Once again Peter laughed. But this time it was hollow and pained, tearing at Gabriel's heartstrings. “I guess you're right. I _do_ do that.” Then the laugh ceased, and genuine remorse took its place. “I'm sorry for storming outta there the way I did. I just feel so stupid.”

  
  


*

  
  


“Don't. It's understandable.”

  
  


“No it's not.” Peter cringed once again at re-living the incident downstairs. “My brother dies – I don't notice. Someone else lives as him for months – goes straight over my head. I hear a _confession_ from his killer, I'm helping to _plan his_ _funeral_... and my best friend is a shape-shifter, who was in this apartment when I left. I come back... and instead of even taking a second to _think_ about anything, the first thing I do is dive head-first right into what _I want_ to be real, just because I can't get the truth into my thick skull!” He shook his head, cursing himself. “Fucking idiot.”

  
  


“You're _not_ an idiot, Peter. Nobody could blame you for what happened. It was _my_ _f_ ault.” Gabriel's kind words did nothing to appease the rancid lump of agitation forming in Peter's chest, but he clung to them all the same.

  
  


Humiliation was still crawling over him woozily, and Peter tried not to think of the way Gabriel (because it had been him – _not_ Nathan) had looked so guilty and terrified when Peter had ran at him so foolishly before. It was only now that it really, truly dawned on him how obtuse he had been about Nathan's death until now. It would never get him anything but hurt if he didn't accept that his big brother was really... gone. As much as it tore through him now, as much as it wrecked his being: ignoring the truth was only ever the worse option. Even now he was reluctant to look up and further overwrite the last image of his brother's face from his mind's eye, but he couldn't exactly run around with his eyes closed forever just to keep it. He had remembered Nathan's face precisely, and could only hope with all he had that that would never fade.

  
  


Scuffling feet sounded nearby and Gabriel very bravely sat down beside him on the ledge, perching on the tiniest edge and keeping both feet firmly on the floor. His worry (both at Peter and the height, he suspected) poked the empath harshly in the side of the head, so he finally found the strength to fully meet his gaze up close and lose the crystal clear memory of his brother's eyes.

  
  


_Goodbye Nathan_...

  
  


He smiled sadly into Gabriel's anxious face, watching the wind play with his overgrown, raven hair. “Y'know it's funny: so many important parts of my life have happened up high.” He mused and Gabriel's head tilted to the side as he thought over the past along with Peter. “I discovered my ability by jumping off a building... sorta. And Nathan's! I trained and learned to control them on a rooftop – pretty important moment. I watched my father die in the top floor of his office... I guess that's pretty important too. I got shot on a rooftop parking garage. Nathan died in a penthouse suite of the Stanton... and then there's you and me, on the bridge.”

  
  


*

  
  


“Is that all?” Gabriel toyed warmly, glowing at the fact that his and Peter's first kiss qualified as being as monumental as the discovery of Peter's abilities and the death of his father. He watched the other man fondly, somehow forgetting about the sickening drop at his back and feeling quite content up here beside him.

  
  


As if divulging a scandalous secret, Peter leaned over and lowered his voice, humour and intrigue dancing over his features. “Bet you didn't know that I was born on the top floor of the hospital...? Yeah. I was.” He said with the air of breaking the world's most shocking news.

  
  


Gabriel didn't have the heart to point out that, yes, he remembered that very well now that Peter had reminded him. The playful look on his face was too sweet to taint with bringing up the fact that his dead brother's memories were swirling around inside Gabriel's head, so he just kept his mouth shut and let Peter play.

  
  


“D'you think it has something to do with how I like being up here out in the open?”

  
  


“I'm not sure.” Gabriel thrummed, mirroring the jokily confused look on Peter's face. “That'd be funny actually: I was practically “born” underground, and I like staying indoors in the peace and quiet. Maybe you're onto something there...”

  
  


*

  
  


The short-lived jovial air disintegrated and Peter's thoughts were once more dragged around to death and despair. He had suspected for a long time now that Gabriel had had a rather unpleasant birth into this new existence (going by the state of him when they'd first met, and the guy's reluctance to bring up the topic), but he had never pushed for the details that Gabriel apparently didn't want to share. So far that had been his own business, and it was up to him to disclose that information if and when he chose. But now... now it wasn't just about one person anymore.

  
  


“G-Gabriel...” Peter stammered and coughed, trying to work out the best way to ask this. “D'you _remember_... what happened before you woke up? As you?”

  
  


“You mean what happened to the version of Nathan?” Gabriel asked bluntly, gently, understandingly. Peter only nodded, listening intently yet afraid of what he might hear. “No.” The watchmaker shook his head, then swept his hair back from where the wind was dancing it across his face. He neatly tucked it back behind his ears again with two hands, taking too much care over that act while he seemed to be summoning the courage for something. “No, I'm sorry. I only remember... afterwards.”

  
  


A pained look struck him, and Peter began to hastily back out. “That's okay, you don't have to tell me -”

  
  


*

  
  


“No, I think it'll be good to... talk about it.” Gabriel said, suddenly overcome with the crawling, haunting sensation of death on his skin and dirt in his lungs that couldn't draw air. It was never a secret, exactly. It was just something that he tried not to think about. And honestly, for a long while all he had known was the _feeling_ of it... it had only been recently he had managed to recall the details and string together a coherent event.

  
  


“Okay.” Peter breathed, his eyebrows peaked and his forehead lined in concern. “Okay, sure. Only if you want to though.”

  
  


Gabriel did, truly. The only problem was what it would mean for Nathan (or who had thought he was Nathan before Gabriel had inhabited this body-for-rent). “I woke up in the dark.” Gabriel said, keeping it simple in hopes of warding off more phantom sensations of the memories. “It was cold. I couldn't breathe... I guess I was suffocating but regeneration must've kept me alive. I didn't know that then, though... Somehow I managed to claw my way out, and I was in a forest. I'd been underground.” Judging by the horrified, yet not as surprised as one might imagine, expression on Peter's face, the guy had guessed something along those lines. “I don't know where it was, and I don't know why I did it, but I started wandering around, just... looking for something, I suppose. Anything.”

  
  


“...And that's when the Baltimore police found you?” Peter coaxed gently and Gabriel nodded.

  
  


“You know the rest from there.” Sometimes Gabriel couldn't believe that his life with Peter over these past weeks was the same life that he had started in such a lost and tormented state: trailing desperately through trees and screaming out for anything more in this world than his empty cavern of a head and aching, tired feet. But thankfully, most of the time he could choose to push away that night and the terrors that accompanied it (at least juggling three different people in his head had well and truly exercised his selective memory skill).

  
  


Peter was silent beside him, sickened into silence and blazing inside with the injustice of it all, and Gabriel only fell for him more.

  
  


“I'm sorry. I might not know how I got there, but I don't think it was done very nicely.” Gabriel said. The sunset had practically faded by now, and the last dying embers of the day glinted off the millions of windows in the city. Gabriel suddenly found the view fascinating enough that he didn't have to look at Peter to let him work out the implications for the man he had thought to be his brother.

  
  


*

  
  


“Someone killed Nathan.” Peter stated flatly. “Wouldn't be the first time.” He was torn between finding it funny that the murderer had targeted not only a regenerating man, but one that was _already dead:_ and being furious that someone else had tried to (and, technically, gotten away with) killing his brother. Meaning Nathan had not only been murdered once... but he had been murdered _twice_ by two different people. And that was only within the past few months, not to mention the many attempts on his life over recent years (Peter purposely tried not to think of a future, scarred and emotionless version of himself being high up on the list of intended assassins). Honestly, it was a miracle that Peter would be attending Nathan's funeral for the first time tomorrow, he thought humourlessly. Who would've guessed the senator would have lasted this long?

  
  


Seemingly surprised by Peter's rather lacklustre response, Gabriel blinked at him as if he couldn't believe his ears. “Don't you want to know who did it? I would've thought you'd be setting out on another hunt. I was just getting ready to convince you not to.”

  
  


Peter sighed, and felt the last dregs of vengeance drain from him and be whisked away on the chill breeze along with his breath. “No. What good would it do? I'm done looking for revenge. Man, don't you think we have enough to think about as it is?!”

  
  


Still shocked dumb, Gabriel narrowed his eyes as if to wheedle out a lie (which was entirely possible). “You're _not_ going to dwell on this...?”

  
  


Peter cast him a little half-smile, amused by the guy's flabbergasted once-over. To be fair, he could hardly blame him after the events of the past few days, not to mention the previous years of Peter's entire life. But the fight was out of him now. After so long trying to avoid it... maybe it was finally time to accept the truth?

  
  


“I'm _not_ gonna dwell on it.” He confirmed, and could practically feel the lack of buzzing in Gabriel's skull. “Could've been anyone. Nathan was a politician, he made lots of enemies. Maybe it was someone with abilities who got caught up in the whole Building 26 “bag'n'tagging”...? I dunno. And anyway, that wasn't my brother.”

  
  


*

  
  


A rather stagnant pause rippled out from them as all the unpleasantness of Angela and Parkman and Bennet's deed was very pointedly _not_ addressed.

  
  


“So what were you practising for?” Peter asked lightly, tactfully changing the subject. “When I walked in before. You said you were practising for something?”

  
  


Oh. Gabriel had actually almost forgotten about that. Maybe the dangerous ledge thing really had something going for it after all...

  
  


“The... tomorrow.” He said gently, aware of how much Peter hated the word “funeral”. At the empath's quizzical look, he elaborated. “I really want to be there with you, but... then I started thinking. It's probably not the best idea if I show up looking, to the rest of the world, like _Sylar_. So...”

  
  


“You'll go as someone else.” Peter finished for him, sending an impressed look his way. “Clever. See, I never even thought of that.”

  
  


“Well you've had so much else to think about.” If Gabriel had used to admire Peter's multi-tasking between work and himself, then it was nothing to how the guy had handled all the mess of the past few days. Although it had been done grudgingly (not to mention putting off salvaging his suit until the last possible minute despite Gabriel's frequent reminders!), Peter had been rushed off his feet and never once complained. “You've been organizing everything for tomorrow, dealing with your mother, thinking about Sylar...”

  
  


Gabriel watched his admirable, brave and breathtaking idol cast his gaze back over the imposing silhouettes of the sky-scrapers stretching away into oblivion, and felt his heart compress just at the sight of him. He didn't envy the responsibilities that the man had to deal with atop his rivalling emotions and suitable fears, but he did wish that he could help lighten the load somehow. However, Peter Petrelli suffered along in silence as always, and so Gabriel would stay close to him and do whatever he could to appease the hurts in any way. Be that literally washing away his blood with a towel after almost fighting to the death, kissing away his tension during the hours of the night, or sitting beside him over a dizzying drop for nothing more than moral support.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter watched his breath cloud away from him in the increasing darkness, comforted just by having Gabriel here. He had gone through life practically all alone, passed from person to person as a temporary nuisance and never valued as an actual human being. The only soul who had been consistent in his life until recently had been Nathan... and for the first time in what felt like years, Peter felt the need to thank the heavens. Surely it was all intertwined and interconnected, and there were too many strings roping everything together for him to get his head around – but all he knew was that he was unfathomably grateful that when he had a true, sturdy companion for the first time in his life... it was when he needed one most.

  
  


He rolled his shoulders and fidgeted on the cold brick. “So have you decided who you're gonna look like tomorrow?”

  
  


“Not yet. I'm leaning towards old Mrs Wallace from across the hall, but there's still time to decide.”

  
  


“I'm sorry you can't go as yourself. But, honestly, I'm just grateful you'll be there at all.” Peter confessed, reaching over and stroking along Gabriel's fingers lightly with his own. It was the first contact since the hug downstairs. It would be great not to have to hide him tomorrow, but Gabriel was right: turning up with someone who looked very much like the murderer of the person being buried was never going to go down gently. As always, the needs of others outweighed the needs of himself, but this time it was partially for Nathan too. It could only be labelled as sick irony if Peter stole the show at Nathan's last party when he had been pointedly ignored during every other one.

  
  


*

  
  


It was officially dark now atop the building, and the night air was starting to bite through their clothing. Gabriel craved the warmth, security and passion of Peter's bed, but he would willingly stand here and shiver to death instead if the man needed this. The rooftop therapy definitely seemed to have worked some magic on the paramedic, but tension still knotted beneath his skin.

  
  


After a long while of nothing more than absent-minded hand tickling, Peter seemed to have gathered enough courage to let his insecurity drip from his perfectly broken lips. “D'you think it's selfish of me? To be here like _this_ , with you, at this time?”

  
  


“How'd you mean?” Gabriel frowned slightly, getting a nasty feeling that some self-abuse for no good reason was on the Petrelli horizon.

  
  


“I mean, remember when I had my memories wiped and didn't know who I was? Well before that I'd been gone for months in a kind of facility... I told you about that, right?”

  
  


“The facility for people with abilities that was actually a prison that kept you hostage for months? Yes, you did.” Gabriel said bitterly.

  
  


“Well during those months, Nathan thought I was dead. He lost it – he quit his job, his family left him, he basically had a meltdown. He said he couldn't sleep, he couldn't concentrate, he practically went mad... and when it's the other way around, what do I go and do?” He eyed Gabriel's body up and down pointedly and squeezed his fingers. “D'you think it's... disrespectful of me?”

  
  


Echoing flashbacks to that excruciating time bit through Gabriel, and he remembered the guilt, the pain, the isolation that ripped him apart because _Pete was gone and it was all his fault_...! Yes, it was ripples of a different life, but that didn't mean it didn't affect him still. “No.” Then his lips twitched slightly. “You want to out-do his meltdown? What would you call flying across the country with a death wish to confront a serial-killer, if not a meltdown?”

  
  


“Any other day in my regular life.”

  
  


“C'mon! Y'know what I mean! Look what you did when you found out what had happened. And the most dangerous thing Nathan did was grow that monster of a beard.” Gabriel nudged Peter with his elbow (only with the tiniest amount of pressure while they still sat on the edge of a building of course), and was pleased to catch a real smile on his face, even if it was only short-lived. “It's not a competition of who can break down the most. Just because you didn't distance yourself from the people you care about doesn't mean you love Nathan any less than he loved you.”

  
  


*

  
  


Silence nipped at them until Peter finally nodded. “You're right I guess.” Then he shook with subtle mirth. “God I wish I could've seen The Beard! Everyone talked about it but I can only imagine...” The sight of Nathan looking anything less than perfect was a rare gem of a moment, and each one should be treasured and mocked relentlessly... then he was suddenly hit with the realisation that there would be no more of those moments to come in future.

  
  


That fact scooped out Peter's insides. He dreaded the countless times awaiting him to realise over and over that there would be no more of anything that belonged to Nathan. No more pats on the back when he was proud or trying to manipulate Peter, no more photo-ready smiles when he was angry or putting his foot down... every “last” that Nathan had was said and done, and Peter had to get to grips with that. He would never see The Beard. He would never hear his brother's laugh (faked or otherwise) again. Nathan Petrelli was dead, and refusing to accept that would only save him as much as Peter's ignorance had back in Washington. The only way to preserve his memory was to cherish and love him as much as Peter had while Nathan had lived amongst him in this world, and that was hardly a difficult condition to uphold.

  
  


As one last scrap of comfort, he hoped that at the very least his big brother would be laid to rest tomorrow looking as neat and pristine as he always strived to be. Not one hair out of place. Not one wrinkle in his crisp white shirt or immaculate tie.

  
  


_Tomorrow... laid to rest..._

  
  


As much as he had tried to convince himself otherwise – there was no escaping it. And if this was it, was really, _truly_ it and there was no denying it anymore... then Peter would grant his beloved big brother the farewell he deserved. As well as the one that Peter desperately craved...

  
  


_'I love you, Pete. You know that?' ''Course. I love you too, Nathan...'_

  
  


“We should probably get inside, huh?” Shivering constantly now, Peter unlocked his folded legs and clambered off the edge of the rooftop, closely followed by Gabriel.

  
  


The taller man gratefully hurried in the direction of the door to the stairwell but Peter caught his hand, stopping him. Gabriel looked back surprised, as if expecting to have forgotten something trivial, then his whole demeanour smoothed out and he softened when Peter pulled his face down gently with both hands.

  
  


“C'mere...” He whispered, planting a warm press of closed lips on Gabriel's plush mouth. He smelled fresh air on his cold skin, and breathed it in deeply as he nuzzled the watchmaker's nose with his own. In response to a questioning loft of one grand, black eyebrow, Peter sent a little grateful smile his way. “Thanks.”

  
  


“For what?”

  
  


“For being here. With me. For choosing to dress up as an old lady just to keep me company!” He laughed then, just picturing it. Peter could safely say that nobody else had ever done such a thing for him before: Mrs Wallace was lovely, but she wasn't exactly the most put-together woman. He hugged an arm around Gabriel's waist, holding onto him tightly. “I just... even if it _is_ selfish of me, and even if it _is_ disrespecting Nathan... I'm really glad you're here. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to do this without you.”

  
  


Long seconds stretched on while Gabriel formed his reply, but the length of his decision spoke volumes of the simplicity of his words. It meant there was so much more that he wanted to say and couldn't decide on which option to go with. “You're welcome.”

  
  


Peter leant up on tip toes to once again kiss the other man, then led him inside and out of the steadily dropping temperature.

  
  


During the walk back down to the apartment (and past old Mrs Wallace's door), Peter reassured himself over and over that Gabriel was beside him. As they shuffled their way across the apartment undressing each other and touching bare skin, he reminded himself that Gabriel would be there with him tomorrow, no matter what happened. And while they lay back on the mattress and held one another close for warmth and comfort, Peter firmly forced himself to get absorbed in this moment and not dare let his thoughts stray from this man or he'd lose his resolve for sure.

  
  


Afterwards, they lay intertwined while two hearts slowed in their beating and two sets of lungs evened in their pace, and Peter fought to remain present for this intimate moment and to not at all think of his brother or the events of the following morning... but he wasn't quite strong enough.

 

 


	14. Before Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Peter has finally been brave enough to initiate conversation, it's real and scary and not just an idle thought spinning in his mind...

“...Are you awake?”

  
  


Gabriel summoned his voice to grunt a “mm-hm” in reply.

  
  


“Can't sleep either?” Peter husked again, and this time Gabriel hauled himself back into consciousness. His body was heavy and lagging, yet his mind had been active since his head had hit the pillow which, he suspected must have been hours ago by now.

  
  


“No.” He murmured, and rubbed his blurry eyes. The room was dark and it could easily have been the early hours of the morning, yet he knew that Peter had also been awake the entire time. He hadn't tossed or turned while lost in restless dreams or wrestled clumsily against Gabriel while he fought in his nightmares... and as that was all that the watchmaker had ever known of Peter's sleeping habits, he had discerned that the stillness and silence of the man's body curled against his back meant that he was having as much trouble nodding off as Gabriel was.

  
  


It didn't matter that the city was quieter than usual tonight, or that the neighbours seemed to have stopped their midnight screeching matches for once: the two men couldn't possibly sleep while each passing second drew Nathan's funeral closer to them. Peter's arm was draped loosely over Gabriel's waist and the watchmaker reached up to stroke the peachy skin of the man's wrist and up to his elbow, tickling lightly with his fingertips.

  
  


“You should try to get some sleep. What if you drop off during your speech? You need to rest, plus you'll feel better.” He advised, and felt Peter's dubious huff blow his hair at the nape of his neck.

  
  


*

  
  


“Sleep won't make me feel better.” Peter stated, feeling goosebumps flare up on his arm from the light stimulation. He tightened his hold around the body in his arms and pressed himself closer into Gabriel. Now that they were both awake and talking there was no excuse to back out of what he wanted to say... His heart was hammering and his stomach was twisting awkwardly, and now that he had finally been brave enough to initiate conversation it was _real_ and _scary_ and not just an idle thought spinning in his mind...

  
  


His body was exhausted and he craved the few blissful hours of escape that sleep could grant him (if he was lucky enough not to be plagued by nightmares, that is). But an idea had been forming and building itself into a desperate _need_ , and it was this idea that had pre-occupied him for these past silent hours. It had been a long time ago now that he had decided he was going to ask, but since then he had been lying here battling between what he wanted and what he thought he could handle. Was it even fair? On himself? On Gabriel? It could very well make everything so much worse! _Or_... it could be the closure that Peter pined for with every fibre of his being.

  
  


He shuffled down and buried his face deeper into the warmth of Gabriel's back, breathing in the smell of his skin and telling himself that no matter how it sounded – Gabriel would understand, right? He wouldn't judge, or kick Peter out of the bed or, even worse, storm away himself would he...?

  
  


“But... I think I know what might help...” Peter breathed, so quietly there was a chance that Gabriel hadn't heard it. And maybe that would be for the best...

  
  


But when his companion twisted and rolled over to face Peter, the empath became only more nervous because he knew Gabriel had heard him. By the look on his face it seemed that he somehow – inexplicably – knew what Peter had been thinking... and he didn't appear to be repulsed by the idea at all...

  
  


The man's voice was no more than a deep rumble in the dark room. “So do I...”

  
  


*

  
  


Now blinking into Peter's eyes, only inches away, Gabriel reached out blindly under the covers and rubbed his hand up the man's narrow waist to his ribs. Sleep was beyond them both at this point, and Gabriel couldn't blame Peter for needing some comfort and reassurance. And all Gabriel could do was be here for him, hold him the way he liked and provide that support. He scoured over the hot and tight muscles, feeling strain rolling off that body in waves, and dipped his head to start kissing, licking and nibbling his way along Peter's jaw and neck in the exact way that made him relax and temporarily melt his worries away –

  
  


“Um... Gabriel.” Peter puffed, his skin growing hot under Gabriel's mouth and his throat quivering against his smooches as a shy laugh left it. Hands appeared in Gabriel's hair, stroking it softly, then gently pushed his head away so the men could look into each other's eyes.

  
  


At once Gabriel began to panic: was Peter still upset about earlier? Did he blame Gabriel? Was he still caught up in the “I'm selfish for having you” state and about to break it off between them for good?! This was the first time since that first timid brush of lips on the bridge that Peter had ever pulled out of such an interaction, and Gabriel couldn't help but flush and despair that he had done something wrong. “What is it?”

  
  


The worry lines on Peter's forehead and the way he was nervously chewing his lip only cemented this fear, and Gabriel resisted the urge to dig his nails into the man's side so he couldn't even leave if he wanted to. “I – I didn't mean like that.” He said with a light caress to Gabriel's cheek with his thumb. “What I meant was...” In the silence while Peter gathered the strength to say what he needed to, Gabriel was certain that his heartbeat was the loudest sound in the entire city. “I want to ask you something. And it's okay if you don't wanna do it, I understand... but I was just... wondering.”

  
  


“Wondering what...?”

  
  


Peter gulped in deep breaths, looking guilty and terrified and very like he had that one time after breaking into his father's closet as a young kid and accidentally spilling orange soda down the most expensive white shirt on the rail... “If you could look like Nathan again? Just once more?”

  
  


Oh. The bluntness of the request succeeded in whipping Gabriel out of the senator's memories and back into the present, where he was lying practically wrapped around a wonderful man under these cosy covers that they had made love in just hours ago... and where said man apparently wanted to be with someone else instead of him. The first wash of emotions was jealousy: Peter would rather share his bed with _Nathan..._?! The second wash was insult: Peter wanted another's company over his.

  
  


Then the third wave hit, and it was sorrow and understanding: he just wanted to be close to his beloved, lost brother. The jealousy was pointless as Gabriel knew perfectly well that despite their touchy-feely way with each other, the brothers had only ever loved each other innocently (regardless of what the part of him that used to be Sylar had thought at times). However, feeling offended was fair enough, as he was literally being asked to vacate the premises (even if only in appearance) and pretend to be someone else.

  
  


Apparently Gabriel had been mulling this over very calmly on the outside, because Peter was still watching him with the same worried and expectant expression, as if he couldn't read it all over Gabriel's face. “You want me to be Nathan?” He eventually paraphrased, doing an excellent job of filtering out the shame and hurt from his voice.

  
  


But Peter shook his head firmly, then spoke beautifully to Gabriel's awake but blissfully silent lie-detector. “No. Not to be him, I know you're you.” Then he dropped his hands and bundled further under the bed covers so that he was just a mop of tousled hair and a pained but resilient face. “I just... wanna look at him one last time. Before they put him in the ground... and he's gone for good.”

  
  


*

  
  


Peter scooted even deeper beneath the duvet so that Gabriel wouldn't see his hands shaking or the blush probably climbing up his neck. Struggling to breathe past his heart in his throat, he tingled with hot shivers all over and began to regret his decision to voice this idea in the first place. By the looks of him Gabriel was upset, or at least annoyed, and even if he hadn't yet physically thrown Peter out onto the floor, being the reason for that expression was almost as bad.

  
  


“But only if that's okay?” He rambled, hating himself and feeling tiny and stupid and selfish. “If it's not then just forget I said anything-”

  
  


“No. I'll do it.”

  
  


*

  
  


It would be painful for them both, Gabriel suspected. It would be shameful and awkward for himself, he was certain. But it was worth it all and more to have made Peter shine with hope and excitement the way he used to do before he'd been roped into plots and lies and super-humans and his bright light had been dulled by harsh experience. And he looked that way now: all big eyes, pure admiration and humble surprise.

  
  


“Really?” Peter breathed, looking so shocked that Gabriel would have wondered if the guy had been having him on this whole time if his lie-detector ability hadn't told him otherwise.

  
  


Gabriel nodded and massaged his friend's ribs lightly, feeling the speed of that heartbeat pulse frantically against his palm. Being so close to the honest, glowing organ that controlled every part of Peter Petrelli almost felt like an honour, and the magical thing dispelled any hesitations Gabriel had about this deal. Even if it wouldn't still be the case in a few moments: right then that heart was beating for _him_. “Really. If you want me to.”

  
  


*

  
  


Before Peter even had time to control his expression, voice and emotions, a ripple began spreading over Gabriel's face and exposed shoulder as he began morphing into someone else.

  
  


“Wait!” Peter barked suddenly, and Gabriel reverted back into himself.

  
  


“What? I thought you just asked -”

  
  


“Yeah, yeah I did. And I still want it.” Peter burned as the thought caught up to him. “...Can you maybe just scoot back a bit? Actually, wait a second...” He clambered out of bed on shaking legs, located and pulled on his pyjama pants and crawled back under the covers. “Okay. Better.” More relaxed and ready to continue now, only then did Peter catch sight of the amused smile trying to hide itself on Gabriel's lips. “What?” He demanded, cringing automatically.

  
  


*

  
  


“Nothing.” Gabriel hummed, growing more and more fond of the adorable self-conscious frown dimpling Peter's brow. “It's just... you're embarrassed?”

  
  


“I'm not lying naked in a double bed beside my brother.”

  
  


“But it won't really be Nathan.”

  
  


“I don't care. I'm not lying naked in a double bed beside someone who _l_ _ooks like_ my brother.”

  
  


“...Do you want _me_ to get dressed too?” Gabriel asked thoughtfully, and Peter squirmed, looking conflicted and shy. So to spare the guy from more embarrassment, Gabriel summoned his pyjama pants telekinetically and wrestled them on under the covers.

  
  


Then he lay deliberately apart from Peter, so that no part of them was touching. “There. Are you ready now?” He asked, watching intently for any sign that maybe the other man had changed his mind. But no, all he saw was such nerves and excitement at the prospect of seeing Nathan again, and Gabriel's insides tangled together painfully. He just hoped that this would do more good than bad...

  
  


*

  
  


“Yeah. Go for it.” Peter nodded, feeling as anxious as he had when crossing the country to save an innocent girl from a super-powered murderer with no defensive abilities of his own. Which was ridiculous! This was _Nathan_. And it _wasn't_ even Nathan! It wasn't Nathan. It was _not_ Nathan. He repeated this mantra over in his head, preparing himself and keeping his feet firmly planted in reality.

  
  


Slowly, grudgingly, he was learning to accept that Nathan was gone. So what that he never got the chance to say goodbye? And so what if his time to mourn had been ripped away from him by finding out too late that everything had already happened and passed by without him? It wasn't fair, but it didn't make a difference. It was too late to do anything at all about it now. Peter knew that tomorrow he would dress up and stand with dozens of people who he never normally spoke to, he'd give his speech and then watch the casket be lowered into Nathan's final resting place. He'd have to be strong. He'd have to be brave. For Nathan.

  
  


But tonight was for himself. He needed this time to come to terms with it, and mostly he needed this moment to let himself fall as far as he had to in seclusion and safety without the risk of hurting himself too badly.

  
  


Once more the face of his only living friend began to distort and twist, and Peter scrunched his eyes closed until the transformation could complete. He didn't know exactly how long it would take... a few seconds passed in silence... then all at once he was aware of a different tone of breathing and a change in the weight beside him on the mattress.

  
  


Now the only problem was that he was too afraid to open his eyes.

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel lay patiently, itchy inside Nathan's skin but refrained from fidgeting. He didn't move a muscle or utter one word, unsure what exactly Peter wanted from him and worried about doing it wrong. Should he role play? Should he just be himself and throw off the illusion for Peter? The whole situation felt off, and it was seriously weird masquerading as Peter's brother the morning of his funeral. Suddenly Gabriel was immensely grateful that the paramedic had taken the initiative to get dressed after all. It didn't seem funny at all anymore.

  
  


He had no clue what to do, so just waited until Peter eventually pried his eyes open and set his gaze on the man he so desperately wanted to see. Strangely, the moment the view processed in that head, Gabriel felt nothing but pleased that he had agreed to help Peter in this way. The way that nobody else could have done but him.

  
  


*

  
  


By some miracle Peter managed to hold back his tears. Not that they didn't rush to the forefront and threaten to make themselves known (as if they hadn't already had enough attention to last a lifetime), but somehow they never quite spilled over.

  
  


It had been years since Peter had last shared a bed with his brother, yet it felt so achingly familiar to lie here with him. They didn't need to talk, all Peter needed was to be close to him. Nathan Petrelli: his hair dishevelled from lying on the pillow, his face cleanly shaven despite the time of night, his smile bright white and picture perfect as it had been every day of Peter's life. Until his face slowly fell into a sombre, sorrowful expression that was so un-Nathan-like that it was actually reassuring.

  
  


It would have been _so_ easy to fall for this... Peter just stared and smiled sad, knowing smiles, but the whole while his inner monologue kept circling around: ' _It's not Nathan... it's not really Nathan... it's_ not _Nathan..._ '.

  
  


Eventually he summoned enough courage to reach out a trembling hand and touch what looked agonizingly like his brother's face, stroking his cheek and holding around the back of his head in the affectionate way he and Nathan had been known to do. Then not-Nathan's lips lifted again, and Peter's abused and violated heart healed a little at the gesture. He'd been right at least – this _did_ make him feel much better than sleep could ever have done. Even though he knew it was only an illusion, Nathan's smile comforted him. Somehow it exuded the sense that everything was going to be okay, the way it always had done: like when Peter had fallen off his first bike post-stabilisers and skinned both knees; when he wasn't accepted to his first choice of university and thought the world was ending but it didn't; and when he'd stormed through a corridor with Nathan beside him for the last time and his worries over confronting Sylar had been washed away with just a little smile like this one...

  
  


“I miss...” _You_ , he wanted to say but didn't. This person _looked_ and _felt_ and even _smelled_ _j_ ust like Nathan, and it would be only too easy to just go with it, pretend, and imagine that Nathan could hear these words. But Peter couldn't do it. “Him.” He finished, running his fingers over the short and bristly hair at the back of this man's head. He took the time to carefully memorise Nathan's face, although there was nothing new to find there. It tore at him, but he knew that this had to be the last time he'd ever set eyes on it in the flesh, or he'd never be able to give it up. He couldn't ask this of Gabriel – to adopt Nathan's appearance every once in a while this way.

  
  


*

  
  


It felt worryingly like Peter was slipping, losing himself further and further in this charade. So, braving speech for the first time, Gabriel almost flinched when the unfamiliar noise left his throat. “Does it feel real to you?” Nathan's voice was soft and low, and Gabriel's pulse quickened when Peter drew in air sharply at the sound.

  
  


The other man nodded and his hand printed fire into Gabriel's cheek. “Yeah.” He gasped, then seemed to hold his breath in an attempt to stay calm. Oh, Peter... “D'you... _feel_ more like Nathan? Like this? Or is it all on the outside?”

  
  


This was something that Gabriel had been worrying about. It was another reason he had been reluctant to wear Nathan's face, in case Peter clung onto this and couldn't come back from it. Gabriel shook Nathan's head. “No. I'm still me, just looking different. It's like wearing a costume, I'm still the same on the inside.” He said gently, sorry to crush Peter's hopes but determined not to let him lose his grasp on reality.

  
  


“Okay.” The empath scratched his nose, blinking rapidly and leaking heartbreak into the compact air that was between them, packed with the glorious man scent of Peter's body and new, unfamiliar undertones of Nathan's that made Gabriel feel slightly queasy. “Good to know. So Nathan is gone. Really gone. When we... tomorrow. That's it done for good, right?” His attempt at bravery was truly admirable, but Gabriel could see right through it.

  
  


“Right.” He whispered, and shivered once again at Nathan's coarse voice in place of where his own should be. Normally he would have touched even one finger to Peter to give him the contact he craved at a time like this, but under these circumstances he was almost 100% certain it was a lie-still-and-let-Peter-do-the-touching scenario, so he did nothing. “But I do remember parts of your life with him. If you want we could...” He shrugged, feeling out of place inviting himself into Nathan's space. “...Reminisce?”

  
  


Running lightly over the surface of the parts of Nathan that he contained, Gabriel knew he probably had enough to suffice. Hardly any of them had a context or were there in full, but he was sure he could input enough information into Peter's stories if he led the way. This couldn't technically be defined as an emergency situation, but Gabriel would break that rule for this one special incident if need be.

  
  


*

  
  


A smile illuminated Peter's eyes, and he found a strange sense of amusement in seeing Gabriel so plainly beneath Nathan's appearance. Maybe it was after spending so much time with the guy, or maybe due to his close bonds with both men, but as soon as that mouth opened Peter could only think of him as Gabriel. It was nice though, comforting in a way he'd never have imagined it would be.

  
  


He shook his head, touched at the offer. “No thanks. I don't want you to pretend to be him. You're doing fine just lying here with me.” He scratched his short nails over the back of “Nathan's” head lightly, gratefully, purposely choosing an action that wasn't too out of place for either Nathan or Gabriel.

  
  


It was just three hours before he was supposed to get up and leave to bury his brother forever... and Peter eventually accepted it all for real. This was what he'd needed: a private, brotherly moment that was intimate, quiet and for his own benefit – while the public show and ceremony later today was for everyone else's.

  
  


Finally, he was ready.

  
  


*

  
  


“Can you stay like that until I fall asleep? Is that okay?”

  
  


“It's okay.” Gabriel obliged with a tiny smile: of course he would, for Peter. The guy looked younger and more helpless than he ever had in Gabriel's own presence, but the sight sang so faithfully of many nights long ago in someone else's life. He didn't care right then that he was only an intruder in those memories, because they were so sweet, and so treasured, and they shook out of the recesses of his head and engulfed him completely now. Peter hesitantly shuffled across and cuddled into Nathan's body the exact same way he had used to do when he was young. It was strange to cradle grown up Pete in Nathan's arms now instead of the wiry kid with the same floppy hair thrust up his nose, but Gabriel revelled in it: for Nathan's ghost, for himself, and for Peter.

  
  


*

  
  


It was awkward lying here this way because they were both adults now and didn't fit together the same, but very quickly the shyness faded while Peter huddled into his brother. He would never have done this to his living counterpart, but if Nathan was still alive then Peter wouldn't have needed it. As it was, the situation was almost perfectly set up: Gabriel, who Peter cuddled with every night now, looking like Nathan, who released the smell and presence that Peter yearned for in that moment.

  
  


It didn't take long before he descended into the most euphoric dreams he'd had in months. With a distinct sense of deja vu, he dreamt of flying: soaring through the clouds, zooming over the city, missing the sky-scrapers by inches and zipping down to the street where somehow he came to a vaguely familiar rooftop and tipped over the edge, falling freely with his arms outstretched and his coat billowing wildly, plummeting to the alleyway beneath where sturdy, familiar Nathan lifted his face to greet him...

  
  


  
  


***

  
  


  
  


In the end, Gabriel did accompany Peter to the funeral as their elderly neighbour Mrs Wallace. She was subtle, nobody else knew her, and she didn't look inappropriate holding Peter's hand or hugging him. She also avoided unwanted attention while Gabriel stood silently at the back of the crowd that had gathered in the cemetery and let the event unfold before him.

  
  


He had never been to a funeral before, and somehow the large crowd didn't daunt him. These people weren't loud or bossy or scary like the pedestrians on the streets that still alarmed him. They were all resigned, united by the loss of a shared ally, and Gabriel tried not to entertain the idea that in a way _he_ was responsible for this whole day. Or at least his hands and his poisonous power were. He couldn't believe how many people had gathered to say goodbye to the former senator and U.S Navy pilot, and found himself wishing that he had properly met the guy, even just once (outside of wearing his skin and dipping into his mind, of course).

  
  


A dozen or so memory leaks flashed up at the sight of some of the guests, but he said nothing and spoke to no one while Peter dotted around greeting people and making small talk. As much as he thought that Peter should have his constant support, Gabriel respected his wishes to hang back in order to avoid the awkwardness of having to be introduced as “the neighbour who didn't even know Nathan” to everyone. Gabriel watched his favourite person hug friends and acquaintances, some familiar by description and others familiar by memory. A short, blonde teenage girl clung to Peter for a long while – Claire – before a tall, middle-aged man wearing horn-rimmed glasses pried her away – Noah Bennet. Of course, he recognised Angela Petrelli before her steely glare and flared nostrils gave her away, but he didn't dare approach her. A few times he met her eye and suspected she was on to him, but was too intimidated to do anything more than jump and look away, trying to appear innocent.

  
  


It was an extremely touching ceremony, yet it was a family gathering for friends and loved ones – not unwittingly-associated-murderers. Gabriel felt very out of place and awful for intruding. That was until Peter's fingers clenched his so tightly that Mrs Wallace's knuckles cracked, and he was happy to be here if only for this little purpose which meant the world to someone else.

  
  


*

  
  


So _it_ had already happened then. Angela had suspected so, but she watched the way her son clung to his “neighbour” and there was no denying it now. She caught every comforting and loving look exchanged between the pair. Her suspicions were further confirmed by the way the other one, _Gabriel_ , squirmed around with guilt and shame plastered all over the body language.

  
  


She watched the funeral, of course. But every once in a while her hawk-like eyes scoured up and down this stooped, elderly woman at the far side of the crowd, and watched this stranger hug her son and kiss his cheek. She knew exactly what face resided on the inside. Erratic images of bridges and blood and steam and rooftops flitted across her vision and she prickled. But she did nothing. What was there to do?

  
  


Her first born son was memorialised and honoured in a ceremony not even close to fitting of him, but then no ceremony ever held could possibly be good enough for her precious Nathan. Not one tear or sob escaped her, but when Peter said his piece she came as close to breaking as she'd allow herself. The elderly neighbour cried then too, but Angela spared that person only a passing glance that time. She held her youngest son and rocked him soothingly before he could escape past her to his companion, and she truly believed he hugged her back this time for more than just appearance's sake.

  
  


The rest of the ordeal carried on around Angela while she was at the centre of it all: the grieving mother, shocked and horrified by the sudden loss of her eldest son while on his vacation, and the subject of much sympathy and well-wishing.

  
  


Only once did she seek out and hold Noah Bennet's knowing gaze.

  
  


*

  
  


When the flag was folded, Peter finally cracked. He sniffled and wept through the lowering of the coffin, but this time his tears didn't last long and he had made sure to have regeneration to take care of the pesky mess of his face afterwards.

  
  


He had played his part well, was polite and gracious to everyone who spoke to him, and only by the grace of god made it through his speech in one piece. It felt bizarre to actually be here after all of the build up, and while everyone else mourned the loss of handsome, charismatic and ambitious Nathan Petrelli... all Peter could think of was the smell of him still lingering in his senses and the feeling of falling asleep curled into that broad chest last night.

  
  


Even though Nathan's true body was lying in the coffin that was now out of sight, Peter knew his brother wasn't down there. He was still here. Beside him, around him, kept alive in his heart until Peter's time also came and he would see him again. The youngest, and now only, brother cried once more but this time it was out of relief: he had worried that the cord connecting himself and Nathan might be severed once six feet of dirt divided them, but it wasn't.

  
  


And that was amazing.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter and Gabriel travelled home mostly in silence, ignoring the wailing sirens and hubbub of city life. By the time they crossed the threshold of Gabriel's apartment, both men were emotionally and physically wrung. It had been a long day: after leaving the ceremony Peter and Mrs Wallace had attended the following wake in Angela Petrelli's house, suffered through the dragging hours and been almost last to leave (once Peter had decided that his mother needed to be temporarily forgiven for that day, he had helped clean up the party along with the hired staff while Angela had sat nearby and watched). Gabriel had successfully passed the entire ordeal as not much more than a watchful shadow, unseen by most guests and thankfully ignored by Angela. His disguise had grown uncomfortable over the hours – he was now prickling and tense beneath Mrs Wallace's skin and itched to look like himself again.

  
  


So as soon as the front door was securely locked behind them, he shifted back into his own appearance and started peeling off the old lady clothes while Peter stood forlornly in the middle of the room, just looking around the apartment as if with new eyes.

  
  


A distinct sense of anti-climactic completion hung stagnant over the place. It was as if suddenly there was too much space around them but the air was bitter and too thin now that they finally had permission to breathe properly. They had chosen Gabriel's apartment deliberately, as the whole shape-shifted-Nathan fiasco had happened last night at Peter's and both of them weren't quite ready to go back there again just yet.

  
  


As Gabriel undressed, he let his eyes dwell on Peter's sad and weakened back, amazed that the guy was miraculously still standing after such a gruelling and strenuous day. He missed the taste and touch of those faulty lips after going so long without them. He wanted to hold and reassure Peter, to let him know that everything was okay for now and to tell him how great he had done all day. Not even one more tear had glistened on that face since leaving the cemetery (at least none that Gabriel had witnessed) but he could almost _feel_ them all riling and protesting inside Peter, begging for release while the stubborn guy felt the need to keep them firmly held back.

  
  


When he had stripped down to nothing but his boxer shorts, Gabriel slid up against the little man and hugged him from behind. He held the smaller body softly but surely, feeling the fabric of the suit scratch his bare chest and arms and smelling Angela's home on her son's hair and skin.

  
  


*

  
  


“You were really brave today, Peter.”

  
  


Despite everything that had happened in the last twelve hours, Peter felt a smile entice his mouth. Just a little one, but it was a smile all the same. “Only cause I had to be.” He admitted, toying with the long, dark hair on Gabriel's arms absent-mindedly.

  
  


“Does it matter why? In the end you still did it.”

  
  


Peter twisted awkwardly to look into the face that he had missed terribly all day, aside from the one that had been plastered all over the ceremony looking as effortlessly perfect as he had been in life. Gabriel seemed immensely grateful to be back in his own skin, and Peter, too, was immensely grateful to set eyes on this beautiful man who had stood by him since sunrise and held his hand every step of the way. He knew it couldn't have been fun for Gabriel to have spent the day the way he had done, but that only made it mean so much more that he had stuck it out so patiently. “Thanks. For being there. I mean it.”

  
  


“'Course I'd be there, Pete.” Gabriel muttered and kissed Peter's temple. The empath tried to ignore the sickening shiver that ran through him, and wondered if there would ever be the appropriate time to ask Gabriel to stop calling him 'Pete'. He didn't want to upset his only friend, but it echoed too strongly of the man he had buried today.

  
  


The funeral still clung to his skin like a layer of sticky condensation, and he felt grimy contaminating this safe haven with it. Even more so when Gabriel reached light fingers up to Peter's jaw and brought his face around, claiming his mouth with gentle, timid kisses that promised to soon turn into so much more...

  
  


It was when the other man's hands fumbled on his shirt buttons that Peter broke away, shrugging back out of his arms. “Wait.” Gabriel stopped. “I just... feel dirty.” The tantalizing prospect of momentary escapement was seducing him in the form of tall, dark and practically naked Gabriel, and the man seemed to have the perfect (if a little inappropriate) remedy in mind for their ailments. Maybe Peter was really getting the hang of this whole “selfish” thing, because he wanted nothing more than to push everything else aside and lose himself in this other man just minutes after returning from his own brother's funeral. Just not until he had washed off the ghost of the day. “I need a shower first.” He hoped this wouldn't be perceived as either rejection or abandonment.

  
  


Gabriel nodded, the slightest dip of his head. “Okay”

  
  


*

  
  


Peter returned the gesture, biting his lips together. He looked worn and weary despite the regeneration that should have wiped away all traces of that. Unfortunately the ability didn't work on more than flesh and tissue. “Just wait for me, I won't be long. 'Kay?” Peter patted Gabriel's upper arm and smiled a tight smile that was all in his eyes before backing away and disappearing into the bathroom.

  
  


Left standing there awkwardly in nothing but his underwear, at first Gabriel just hovered where he had been left. Then he procured and pulled on a worn grey t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants, and perched on the end of the bed to wait for Peter's return. His blood, that had been steadily heating with the proximity of the other man, cooled as the seconds ticked past, and he wondered if it would be worth going in there after Peter before they left it too long. But he knew it definitely wasn't _that_ type of shower that the guy had crept away for, and he couldn't blame him either.

  
  


Gabriel wasn't so obtuse not to notice the rather cold-hearted twinges that stained their impending affair, but as each hour was precious and every day a gift, he would only pass up a night of passion and pleasure if Peter specifically told him 'no'. And he doubted that was on the cards tonight. Perhaps Peter had never needed Gabriel's services more than he did now, in a way that wearing Nathan's face for him and rocking him to sleep couldn't help with. Mostly it would be for Peter's benefit tonight, to comfort and soothe him and let him know he was special, but truthfully Gabriel needed it just as badly. Although the dread of Nathan's final farewell was now gone, a huge dead weight still hovered above the pair.

  
  


Over the past few days Gabriel had acted brave and pretended to be strong so that the burden of Sylar wouldn't fall directly onto Peter. But the anticipation crawled further up his back, over his shoulders and swallowed him up the longer time passed and there was no mention of the killer or his whereabouts. The waiting and not-knowing was almost worse than having a deadline to count down to, but Gabriel could feel the sands of time slipping through his fingers. Every minute together with Peter could be their last and that fear never waned, but Gabriel took refuge in the fact that if this was all to end: at least he had experienced the best part of life that he ever could have imagined. It wasn't that glamorous, and it wasn't that extensive, but it was his, theirs, him and Peter's, and it was everything he wanted and more.

  
  


Unlike Peter, Gabriel hadn't slept a wink last night. Once the little man had grown limp in his (morphed) arms and slept as peacefully as Gabriel had ever seen him yet, the little happy breaths and mutters of _'Nathan'_ had transitioned into desperate clutching and grasping and mumbles of _'Gabriel'._ The watchmaker's heart broke only more each hour because he knew what fear drove his friend's dreams, and also knew he wasn't able to promise him against it happening. So he had just lain awake as the sky had lightened outside, afraid that this night might be his last one, and determined not to miss another moment of Peter Petrelli. Carefully, he had stroked the sleeping man's hair and traced over his cheeks and nose with a feather-light fingertip, engraving the sight into his mind so that it could never be removed – no matter how many tenants came and went inside this rent-a-body he was presently inhabiting.

  
  


And so currently, still waiting patiently on the edge of the bed while the sound of running water came from the other room, Gabriel gave Peter his space. But only because the man had asked for it. It felt like the longest shower in history when every second without Peter Petrelli in sight felt like a second wasted, but _finally_ , _blissfully_ , the water cut off.

  
  


Then, trying to hide his eagerness out of respect for Nathan, Gabriel lounged out on the mattress to look like he'd been sitting that way the entire time. He flicked on the news so that when Peter came out it wouldn't be as obvious that he had sat here as eagerly as he had done.

  
  


But the moment the TV sprang to life Gabriel knew that he had doomed them. He had cursed their happiness by trying to prolong it. This was the beginning of the end, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter was brushing his teeth with a towel slung low on his hips when Gabriel's shout pierced his satisfied, post-shower reverie. The panicked sound took him by surprise and he dropped his toothbrush in the sink and stumbled to the door on legs that refused to accommodate him. Even before setting eyes on Gabriel's paled and clammy complexion, he knew what had happened.

  
  


He crossed the room as if in a dream, unaware of physically walking but suddenly appearing at the other man's side. He stood numbly beside him at the bed, hands limp by his sides and vision glued to the TV that had also captured Gabriel's wide-eyed attention.

  
  


A live news coverage of a hostage situation at a nearby library flashed over the screen, with dozens of police cars and ambulances crowded around in the background. The reporter spewed garbled noises that didn't yet register in Peter's mind, and details scrolled across the bottom of the picture that his dazed eyes couldn't quite process. But it made no difference. He already knew too much without knowing anything at all.

  
  


No... It wasn't fair... it was too soon...

  
  


Time wound down to a crawl while the reporter's words finally became coherent as a hateful, unavoidable truth... “ _...footage recently received from the abductor, who has now been officially identified as LAPD officer, Matthew Parkman..._ ”

  
  


Then a familiar round, flushed face filled the screen, sneering in a way only the devil inside would do. “This message is for a man who is very, hmmm... _special..._ ” Then a blood-curdling scowl took over his face, so uncharacteristic of the cop that Peter didn't need to be under the hold of an ability this time to see the man behind the mask.

  
  


“Give me what I want, Peter. Or I will kill _a_ _ll_. _These_. _Innocent_. _People_...”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry Peter and Gabriel, but it has to happen sometime :( I want to mention that in this story shape-shifting doesn't include clothes (I know that in the show they went back and forth on that) – so that's why Gabriel had to dress as an old woman here, and also why last chapter “Nathan” was wearing Gabriel's t-shirt and jeans instead of his usual suits :)
> 
> I also want to say thank you to everyone who has left a kudos for me! ^.^ I appreciate every single one, and if there was a way to thank you all individually I would, but until then - thank you! X)


	15. Like Grains of Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is undoubtedly the purest, sweetest thing anyone has ever offered to do for Peter... but he doesn't even want it...

Gabriel gazed at the unfamiliar visage of the grim reaper, knocked numb but aware that he was falling. His grasp on this earth was slipping, and only more so as this person cast his chaos upon them. Brick by brick, this foundation that both he and Peter had spent these past few weeks building was being ripped apart. Their bubble shattered like glass. The outside world blew in around them in an icy gust, cruel and inconsiderate. And they could do nothing but watch as the gleeful murderer revelled in wrecking every last aspect of them that he hadn't already single-handedly destroyed.

  
  


On the tv, Sylar chuckled, pleased by the greatness of his own idea. “It's win-win. You give me what I want, nobody gets hurt, _and_ you get to be the hero and save these people! And I know how much you just _love_ to do that...” He sighed in mock sadness and gestured Matt's arm at a vast chamber behind him.

  
  


A line of countless people were poised on the top floor banister of a grand, multi-story staircase, whimpering and crying and balanced on the edge of sanity... to the rest of the world it would seem like an average coercion, threatened with violence and weapons. But to Peter and Gabriel it was so much worse: for they knew that with only the slightest pushed thought from their delighted captor, the hostages would take one united step forward against their will and fall the deadly height onto a cold, solid marble floor.

  
  


“And don't even waste my time pretending! We both know that you're not about to let these people die for your own selfish reasons.” Sylar rolled his eyes, still half-smiling at his own genius. “So really, it's quite simple: all you have to d...” But then all of a sudden the guy seemed to choke, stuttering and trembling in a rather grotesque display before a strained, earnest expression broke through the mask for the briefest moment -

  
  


“I'm sorry! I-I tried to – but I c- couldn't hold him off any longe-”

  
  


Then the last echoes of Matt Parkman dissolved and Sylar was very clearly once again in control. Frowning now, as if irritated that his performance had been interrupted, this time there was no humour in the killer's tone or face. This time it wasn't a laughing matter. “It doesn't have to get ugly unless you make it so, Peter – and I'd suggest you don't. Get back to me before...” He broke off in thought... then a childish smile twisted his face. “Midnight. Why not? Let's say midnight, that gives you just over an hour to decide. Call me before then, or these people will be scraped off the floor with a shovel and broom. _Don't_ keep me waiting.”

  
  


And then he was gone.

  
  


The last, lingering shot of merciless, possessed eyes seared across Gabriel's vision, dancing before him even after the video ended and the reporter resumed her updates of the situation. She was talking, and Gabriel knew it was probably something he should listen to but somehow he couldn't quite orient himself. The ongoing report seemed to fade out of importance, leaving a ringing silence buzzing around the two dumbstruck men. Gabriel let out his first breath since the message had began, and felt all of his resolve draw out along with the air from his body.

  
  


So this was it then. Things were unravelling already, and there was no stopping it.

  
  


He swayed a little, dizzy and concussed by the force of that bullet to the heart, and felt a similar nausea roll off Peter at his side. For a long while neither man said a word as the true horror of the situation hit home, smothering them steadily until there was no reprieve in sight.

  
  


Eventually Gabriel managed to squeeze his voice out of his tight, dry throat. He lifted a lead-like arm and touched the tiniest tips of his fingers to his companion's bare hipbone. “Peter -”

  
  


But the empath disappeared from Gabriel's touch with reflexes fast as lightening. “Son of a _bitch_!” He yelled, throwing himself at the old tv. “Son of a BITCH!” With a startling _crash_ he sent his fist flying into the screen, scattering glass and drops of dark blood over the floor.

  
  


“Peter!” Gabriel exclaimed, jumping to his feet and helplessly watching as rage possessed his only friend. The smaller man punched the screen again, and again, until the signal sparked and died and blood dripped down the back of his hand and wrist. “Stop! You're only hurting yourself!”

  
  


But Peter ignored this plea, ignored the glass stabbing into his knuckles and the blood sickeningly tarnishing his freshly-washed skin. With a cry he knocked the heavy box of the TV onto the floor before further feeding his need for destruction and turning to the bed: he kicked and punched the mattress until the bed covers were half crumpled on the floor and stained with red handprints. Caught up in the whirlwind of fury and despair, he stormed around the room in a frenzied confusion before finally seeming to run out of steam and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. Silence pounded audibly when everything fell still.

  
  


Horrified and stunned by that uncharacteristic display, Gabriel gaped at the mess of broken little Peter Petrelli. Any other time he might have looked funny: in nothing but an old towel, the faded fabric now more pink than red; hair wet and stuck up at odd angles; and with toothpaste still foaming and forgotten on his lips. But the oddness of his appearance was so contrasting to how the guy was feeling that Gabriel felt much closer to tears than mirth. Peter then lowered his shaking hands to hug himself, glaring up at the ceiling instead of at Gabriel. His burst knuckles had already sewn back together but blood continued to trickle down to his elbow.

  
  


“ _Peter..._ ” Gabriel whispered gently, terrified of doing or saying anything that would send this fragile man further down this descending spiral, but desperate to console him somehow. Even though both of them knew there could be no avoiding the pain by losing themselves in each other's touch this time. Kisses and caresses couldn't help them any longer. It seemed impossible that mere minutes ago Gabriel had been worrying about reigniting the mood for their nightly escapade after Peter's too long shower.

  
  


If only he hadn't turned on the tv... they would never have known about Sylar and the hostages... then nobody could blame them for not getting the message and letting this whole fiasco just pass them by...

  
  


*

  
  


Peter felt as though he had forgotten how to breathe, and each intake of breath physically hurt as if he was doing it wrong. Terror and denial blazed through his veins, he felt hollow yet at the same time felt every particle that made up his being _scream_ in agony and it was all too much to handle on top of everything else that had already crippled him so recently, so terribly. He knew that he must look insane right now, but was beyond the point of caring. It wasn't fair! He wasn't ready! There was so much more he wanted to do before everything was wrenched away from him yet again!

  
  


“Isn't it enough that I had to bury my brother today?! Because of _him_?!” He shouted, anguish and injustice leaking its way into his voice. He gestured harshly at the broken state of Gabriel's tv. “And now _this_?! That son of a _bitch_ – he won't rest until he's taken, _everything_ from me!” His whole body was trembling in rage and fear, and he felt so ridiculously exposed and vulnerable with only a towel to protect him from the harsh claws of reality. He hugged himself again, tighter this time, so that his nails bit painfully into his skin. Then he finally looked into Gabriel's eyes for the first time since leaving the bathroom.

  
  


Fucking Sylar and his fucking personal vendetta! Why was it that everything important in Peter's life somehow became a target for the killer?! Over the years the guy had chipped away at all sides until Peter had been left raw and exposed and alone – and now it seemed that that _still_ wasn't enough!

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel's heart bled for Peter, and he shuffled forward and took hold of the man's hands, prying them off himself and holding them for comfort and to keep them from inflicting any more harm. He didn't know what to say, and so he settled on nothing. Just hoped to convey all of his heartbreak and sympathy through his face and touch.

  
  


“I bet he _k_ _new._ ” Peter nodded hastily, absolutely sure of it. His eyes were welling up, but those same tears from the funeral were still stubbornly denied release. “I bet he _knew_ what today was and has just been _waiting_...! Waiting to attack until it'd hurt me most!” Fraught with grief, he reached for and clung onto the loose fabric of Gabriel's t-shirt, smearing red fingerprints over his stomach. “I can't lose you too – I _won't._ ” He vowed madly, looking the closest thing to crazy that Gabriel had ever seen him.

  
  


Memories of lying awake last night to witness and suffer through Peter's grasping and whimpering stung through Gabriel then, and he, too, really struggled to fight back tears of his own. He wanted more than anything to comfort Peter and promise that it was all just a nightmare... but he couldn't. They were well beyond comforting words and petty denial now. “We knew this moment was coming.” He mumbled thickly, his voice compressed by his blocking sinuses.

  
  


“Yeah! But not so soon!” Peter pulled tighter on Gabriel's t-shirt, and the watchmaker could feel the empath's hands shaking profusely through the fabric. A transformation was coming over this ravaged man, his anger fading and desperation blossoming to the surface of his constantly swirling vortex of emotions. Even as Gabriel watched he saw the helplessness give way to deranged enthusiasm, and it turned his blood cold, colder than Sylar's ransom message already had.

  
  


There it was again: Peter's look of getting himself into trouble. Understandably he was upset, but hints of hysteria were glinting through the cracks now and Gabriel feared at once that after being so strong and withstanding so much already... maybe this had been the final shove to send the guy toppling over the edge. Hoping that keeping calm might inspire Peter to do the same, he bottled his own terror and mercifully managed to stay composed. At least on the outside. One of them had to stay rational here, and it didn't seem like it was going to be Peter. Not that anyone could blame him.

  
  


So, assuming the mantle, Gabriel reached out and gingerly wiped the toothpaste at the corner of those tender lips. “I know.” He watched as the little man cottoned on to his action and took over impatiently scrubbing at his mouth, as if only to get rid of the nuisance that was distracting the watchmaker so they could get back to business. Careful not to break any of the eggshells he was walking on, Gabriel spoke softly. “But it's happened. We can't do anything to change that.”

  
  


*

  
  


“We can do _something_!” The paramedic insisted furiously, eyebrows furrowing at Gabriel's lack of outrage. Didn't the guy realise what he was saying? What his surrender would mean...? “You really expect me to walk you in there like... like an _execution_?! If we go to Sylar, if we give his body back – we don't know what will happen to you!”

  
  


Peter blinked delirious eyes up at Gabriel, who seemed to be taking this whole thing infuriatingly well. He couldn't believe he wasn't kicking and screaming (the way Peter wanted to, the way he was very badly restraining from) and tightened his hold on the man's t-shirt, if only in a vain attempt to ground him into sanity while also keeping Peter standing. When Gabriel opened his mouth again his tone was laced with resignation, and each word clonked Peter over the head painfully.

  
  


*

  
  


“Maybe we should just be grateful that we got to share the time we have done.” Gabriel suggested sadly, knowing for certain that Peter would of course disregard it, but hoping against it all the same.

  
  


It might not be the most dramatic option, but the thought of running to Sylar to fight and stop the mighty villain terrified Gabriel more than the thought of turning himself over did. He didn't want to start a war, and he didn't want more people to get hurt... one person in particular. It was essentially sighing his own death warrant, but he had been harbouring a little back-up plan that he drew courage from now. It wasn't much, but at least it was something to hold onto. He just wasn't sure that Peter was ready to hear it yet.

  
  


Gabriel tried to tell himself how incredibly lucky he had been to have lived these past weeks at all. He wasn't ready for all of this to end, but he would be fooling himself to think he would get a happily ever after considering his state of being. He had been living on borrowed time from the very beginning. “Maybe we should just remember the good times and be happy with what we had.”

  
  


“No! No, no, no, no...” With renewed mania, Peter hissed quickly, quietly, suddenly whispering as if the very walls were spying on them and this idea was far too precious to be overheard. He leant in close to Gabriel, the sincerity on his flushing face evident for anyone to see, walls and all. “No. We _don't_ have to just let him do this. We can – we can _fight!_ He doesn't have to win this!” Worry lines creased Peter's forehead and he tugged on Gabriel's t-shirt again impatiently. “Who says we have to just give in? Huh?!”

  
  


“We're not strong enough to stop him. He can control people now, we just saw that -”

  
  


“That doesn't mean we shouldn't try!”

  
  


“There's nothing we can do. You heard what he said – those people will die if we don't go.”

  
  


“ _You_ might die if we go!”

  
  


“We don't have another option -”

  
  


“We'll ambush him! Surprise him! Get the upper hand and somehow _f_ _orce_ him to leave us alone!”

  
  


It was wearing Gabriel down to be the voice of reason, especially against an upset Petrelli, and especially-especially when Peter was saying everything that Gabriel wanted to cling to so badly. But he knew it was futile, he knew they were trapped like two little mice cornered in by the fearsome hunter. Someone had to surrender. Someone had to lose... and do so in the way that spawned the least consequences.

  
  


“You said so yourself: he'll never stop. Do you really think we could talk him out of wanting his body back...? Because I don't.” Gabriel said.

  
  


The gears in Peter's mind worked madly and the watchmaker could practically see them churning away like in one of his precious time-pieces. “Then we'll get rid of him. I could, I-I mean – Hiro Nakamura! I'll get his ability and stop time, save the hostages and teleport Sylar somewhere far away where he can't hurt anyone ever again!”

  
  


“And what about Matt?”

  
  


“What _about_ him?!” Peter shouted, pulling his grasp so taut that the garment would most definitely be disfigured for good. “This isn't about him – this is about _us_! He deserves it! I mean, it's his own fault he's in that situation in the first place!”

  
  


“We can't stop Sylar without hurting or killing Matt in the process.” Gabriel blinked sadly, dubiously. “He has a family, a child. He has a life to get back to.”

  
  


“Then let someone else save him, it's not our duty!”

  
  


At that, Gabriel closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, reaching unseeingly for Peter's tensed biceps and holding onto them. He never would have imagined this man would have been capable of thinking such a thing, but the fact that he would even consider it to preserve what they had between them hurt Gabriel more than seeing Peter's anger and desperation etched all over his face.

  
  


His skin was soft to touch, heated from both adrenaline and his recent shower. The aroma of soap and shampoo mingled with the minty freshness of toothpaste furled up Gabriel's nose, accompanied by the metallic tang of blood. It was a compilation of parts of Peter, intoxicating and encouraging while also agonizing in how much Gabriel didn't want to lose it, didn't want to lose him. And allowing the man to lose himself was just as bad – if not worse.

  
  


Everything was broken. Everything was a mess. He felt far too small and helpless in this fucked-up situation in this fucked-up room, and yearned to do something that felt like having even a morsel of control left. So, considering the options available, he started fixing up the room.

  
  


“We can't run away from this.” He sighed, disentangling himself from the fervent clutches and leaving the desperate man standing there alone

  
  


*

  
  


Peter watched numbly as Gabriel set about making up the dishevelled bed, and only then did he properly notice the blood on his hand, the mess he'd made of the duvet and of Gabriel's t-shirt. Embarrassment threatened to wash over him then, and he was acutely aware of the tantrum he had thrown – or, well, was still currently throwing. He hadn't whined so petulantly for a long time, but he was fucking sick and tired of putting himself last! Look where it had gotten him! If this wasn't a time to put his foot down and fight for his cause then Peter didn't know one, so he shelved his self-consciousness and rounded on Gabriel, tagging along at his heels while the guy made the bed in a ridiculous semblance of normality while the sky was falling down around him.

  
  


“We have to go to him, Peter.” The watchmaker said, shaking the duvet maybe a little too harshly and keeping his attention on his work.

  
  


Chest heaving and heart pounding, Peter fought to keep his face straight and voice audible. Any second now he worried that the last of his strength would be sapped away and he'd fall, unable to express himself any more and resigned to a pitiful ball of too many feelings and repressed ideals that had only broken the surface when it was already too late. But he persisted stubbornly, pretending that he didn't feel tiny and stupid with only a fucking pink towel and his foolish drive for justice as his only acting allies in this argument.

  
  


“Why?” He begged, throwing his arms out wide. “Why do we have to? Alright – I've spent my entire _life_ doing everything for other people! Being fucked over and walked on to ensure their happiness over mine! Well now it should be _my_ _t_ urn!” It went against everything that he stood by. Everything that he _was._ But he would risk it all for the chance to be with Gabriel. “Why can't _I_ be selfish... just this once?”

  
  


*

  
  


“... _Oh_...” Gabriel crooned, feeling his resolve wring itself to the brink of death. The unfiltered anguish in the guy's voice tortured him, and he only wished it could be that easy. “Peter...” He dropped the pillows down neatly in their place atop the now straightened (although still bloodstained) duvet and once more graced his vision with the demented, simmering little man. He reached over and tugged on the towel to pull him closer but Peter shoved his hands away and stood apart, glowering with an expression so defiant that it tore every last one of Gabriel's heartstrings. He hated the burn that was this touch-addicted man denying physical contact, but the passion for his cause was just so Peter-like that Gabriel actually felt a bubble of endearment inflate in his chest. It amused him that even in _these_ circumstances his fondness for this person could run parallel with all of the upset that was vying for his attention.

  
  


He welcomed the heat of affection warming his bones, and let it stain his voice. “Because that's not who you are.” He said softly, licking his dry lips and looking on sadly. “If we run away and those people die, you'll never forgive yourself. You might think it's a good idea now, maybe tomorrow, maybe even next month. But I know you... and I know you'd only torture yourself over not helping them. It would wreck you, Peter. And I can't ask that of you.”

  
  


*

  
  


Peter wanted to protest, to argue, to deny it and insist it wasn't true. But they both knew it would be pointless. The main impact of that statement, however, was the realisation of Gabriel's true motivation: he was prepared to die... so Peter could live. His knees almost buckled and all he wanted to do was cave in and hold onto Gabriel so tightly that no force on Earth could divide them. As it was, however, he just wavered on the spot and genuinely battled to recover his voice.

  
  


He chewed his tongue to refrain his tear ducts from doing their job and very soon he tasted blood. His tongue healed instantly, but his soul was far from it.

  
  


*

  
  


“Don't leave me.” Peter demanded so weakly it could barely be called a demand. “I can't do this on my own.”

  
  


Guilt smothered Gabriel, for he knew that he was responsible for enforcing Peter's dependency on him – and while he couldn't resent that in a million years, it meant that when he was forced to take it all away, the other man was left lacking. That he could even consider persisting after such a confession made Gabriel wonder if he was more like the cold-hearted killer that used to reside in this body than he'd like to think. That's not to say it was easy to let Peter down: in fact, it might have been the most difficult thing Gabriel had ever done (even taking both Sylar and Nathan's memories into consideration). He would have imagined it was an impossible feat, and one that he wasn't ever capable of. “Yes you can.” He said quietly. “You don't need me, you can do anything you put your mind to, Peter.”

  
  


“Except stop you from leaving!” The paramedic let out a painful hybrid of a wail and a growl, and it was then that Gabriel really began to wonder...

  
  


...What _if_... who said his future had to go a certain way...? Maybe it didn't have to be like this...

  
  


Then a high-pitched chiming made both men jump. Peter now looked more terrified than ever as he glared at the ringing cell phone, and Gabriel's barely conceived hope faded, knowing exactly who was on the line and what news was about to be dumped on them. He knew that Peter wasn't going to answer, and this call cemented that the little man was losing an uphill battle. So Gabriel bent to the floor and retrieved the device from where it had fallen half under the bed.

  
  


“NO! Leave it!” Peter commanded, appearing at Gabriel's side and wrestling him for the thing.

  
  


“We have to know what she saw, it could be invaluable -”

  
  


“No we _don't!_ Don't do this!” But Gabriel took advantage of their height difference to hold the phone out of Peter's reach before accepting the call with a heavy heart. It was for the best, and he hoped this dejected little being would come to see that. Peter gave up and paced back, chewing his thumbnail and shooting daggers across the gap to Gabriel.

  
  


“Mrs Petrelli?” He asked meekly.

  
  


There was a silence so disdainful that frost could have crept over the phone and it wouldn't have been out of place. Then finally, a short, clipped tone. “Gabriel. I called to speak with my son.” _Not you_ echoed out, unsaid.

  
  


Now was hardly the time to be anxious about his first interaction with this woman, and so Gabriel stood up straighter and forced his voice as steady as it would go. “He, uh...” After a quick glance at Peter and assessment of his body language, Gabriel cleared his throat. “He can't come to the phone. B-but you can talk to me.”

  
  


*

  
  


Miles away across bustling streets and grand mansions, wrapped up in a silk robe and pacing around her resplendent bedroom, Angela Petrelli pursed her lips. Although it wasn't particularly unexpected, she bristled at another man, this one in particular, answering her son's call at this time of night. If this hadn't been such urgent business, she would have flat out refused to communicate with him at all. But, regretfully, it _was_ urgent.

  
  


Right on the heels of one of the most draining days of her life, while the earth had yet to even settle above her eldest son's corpse, she had hoped in vain that she might be graced with a dreamless sleep. But fate waits for no one, Angela Petrelli knew that fact better than most.

  
  


She had promised to help Peter when he'd come to her earlier in the week, and as much as she hated providing her reckless son with the incentive to get himself hurt, she knew that if she didn't hold up her end of the bargain she was sure to lose him for good. This was her last strike, and he was the last remaining fibre of her humanity.

  
  


“What did you see Mrs Petrelli?” The familiar, yet warped voice that used to be Sylar's sent shivers down her spine – and that was no mean feat. She had seen his face over and over in her dreams for weeks now, been plagued with thoughts and fears that all revolved around him, and wished more than a few times that he would just cease to be...

  
  


However, knowing what she did now, she almost felt bad about that. Almost.

  
  


*

  
  


Angela sighed down the phone. “It's tonight. Sylar: it's tonight.”

  
  


Even though he'd known the very second the phone had started ringing, disappointment shook Gabriel anew. And that was nothing compared to the other jittery, fidgety man's expression once he'd read it from Gabriel's. “Okay.” He breathed, worried he might mishear her due to his rushing blood obscuring all other sounds.

  
  


An intuitive woman, she seemed to know that he was still clinging onto hope with his fingertips. “I'm sorry.” Was all she said, but that was all that was needed.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter watched Gabriel flinch and close his eyes, and wished he'd put up more of a fight for the phone. How was he supposed to dissuade Gabriel after his meddling mother told him all was lost?! Which still he refused to believe: the shining light of a time long past sparked to life again within him, as foolishly optimistic as it had been years ago when he'd thrown himself off a building in hopes of flying.

  
  


“Thank you.” Gabriel croaked, nodded, then ended the call and set the phone back down on the bed. Already it was obvious that Peter had lost the fight, but that didn't stop him from trying.

  
  


“We're _not_ going.” He said immediately, fisting his hands by his sides. “She's not always right. Her dreams can be changed.” He said it with no room to argue, even though he knew that these prophecies always seemed to have a nasty way of fulfilling themselves. But he was far from giving up on this man who had unexpectedly burst onto the scene and effectively changed Peter's whole life. He just wasn't ready yet. He wasn't finished here.

  
  


“Her call doesn't change anything. Every circumstance still stands, and we still have to rescue those people.”

  
  


Peter scoffed, flailing his fists around wildly. “Or I'll drive myself mad later?!”

  
  


“Yes.”

  
  


“But that's _then_. This is _now_.” He said stupidly through gritted teeth, even though he knew Gabriel was right.

  
  


“Tell me you wouldn't regret it.” The watchmaker prodded softly, eyeing Peter from beneath his heavy laden brow. Despite every desire to scream it from the heavens, the empath never quite got the words out. “Exactly.” Gabriel sighed and somehow it wasn't patronizing. “I know how important it is for you to help people, you'd never be able to live with yourself if you let this happen. How could I ever be so cruel and be responsible for that?”

  
  


“It's not up to you to save me. I don't want you to die for me!”

  
  


Then Gabriel's eyes warmed and his full lips turned up as if something was suddenly very amusing. “I can't think of a better reason to die.”

  
  


Peter probably should have been consumed by love and tears at such a confession, but instead yet another surge of venomous hatred boiled over towards the serial-killer who had orchestrated this whole thing and pounced only when something in Peter's life had _finally_ gone right!

  
  


Sylar was relying fully on his weakness and was pushing his most vulnerable buttons: he knew that Peter would never gamble the lives of innocent people who's value unquestionably surpassed his own. And it was true, for the most part. But these past few weeks had changed him, battered and bruised him and only _now_ that he had something worth fighting for had the thought sparked to life for the first time: didn't Peter deserve some value too? Of course he wanted to stop people from getting hurt, and of course he didn't want anyone to suffer on his behalf... but maybe he didn't have to always fold so easily? Maybe he didn't have to lay himself in the mud to provide a bridge for everyone else to get over safely?

  
  


He had long come to accept that he was never going to experience the type of affection that he bestowed upon others in return. Yet here was Gabriel, ready to commit such a selfless act on Peter's behalf, undoubtedly the purest, sweetest thing anyone had ever offered to do for him... and he didn't even want it. Surely it was a sick taunt, a tease – that he was only granted this act of devotion when the conclusion was that he would lose everything. And it wasn't fucking fair! Why should he always be the fall guy in every aspect of his life?!

  
  


Starting into another bout of ill-suited house cleaning, Gabriel bent to pick up the shattered tv, then crouched to retrieve every last slice of glass with an enviable, meticulous patience. This action also was so inappropriate during the midst of the fight that Peter finally choked his voice out into the open. “You don't have to sacrifice yourself to stop me feeling guilty. D'you seriously think I _wouldn't_ feel guilty for letting you kill yourself...?”

  
  


*

  
  


The little man's emotions had spiked all over the spectrum already, a burst of different colours and shapes around him, but finally he seemed to be fading. Slowly he was returning to reality now that all the other options had fallen flat.

  
  


“We don't know for sure what will happen.” Gabriel shook his head, keeping his hands busy gathering the glass shards to stop himself from reaching after Peter again. He needed to hold him so badly but feared another shrug out of his touch. “Maybe Sylar will be the one who disappears, or maybe neither of us will.” It was this next thought, the back-up, that he suspected had helped to keep him grounded instead of bubbling over the way Peter had done. It was a long shot, but at least it was hope. And now that his rage seemed to have dissipated, Peter might be able to handle it, he reasoned. “...What if I can save everyone by _fixing_ him?”

  
  


Peter huffed, crossing his arms to hide the fact that he was trying to hug himself again, but Gabriel saw it anyway. “What? How could you fix him?” He asked, with the distinct air of only humouring Gabriel while really getting ready with his next wild suggestion.

  
  


But the watchmaker plodded on, voicing the thought that had been slowly fermenting since discovering the truth about his past three days ago. “It's what I do, it's what I'm good at. I see how things work, and I fix them. You said Sylar is unstoppable, nobody can defeat him – but if I fight from the _inside_... surely there's a chance. ...Right?”

  
  


“B... but why would you risk that? You could be wrong!”

  
  


“Or it could be the only way out of this.” Gabriel reasoned, accidentally tightening his hold on the broken glass as Peter was still too far away to touch. He barely flinched, and the cuts healed themselves before he'd even had time to see them.

  
  


The empath screwed up his face and shook his head as if he couldn't understand, but really Gabriel knew that he just didn't want to listen. He just wasn't ready to give up yet, but the clock was ticking and every second brought them only closer to midnight. “Listen to me, Peter – listen.” Gabriel insisted, and Peter held his breath and looked right at him, doing as instructed only grudgingly. “This way, nobody has to get hurt-”

  
  


“Except for _you_. Except for _me!_ ” Peter exclaimed, bunching a hand in his damp hair.

  
  


“What I mean is: Sylar will let the hostages go. Matt will be free to go back to his family. You will be free of Sylar, and if I manage to fix him... then so will the rest of the world. You'd never have to worry about him again.” He said this carefully, willing Peter to understand and not to fight him on this. But then, if Peter did that, he wouldn't be the man who Gabriel had come to revolve his whole world around, would he?

  
  


*

  
  


Peter set his jaw. “Okay. Say you _do_ somehow manage to fix Sylar, what does that mean for you? Huh? What about... all of this?” He bit back the urge to say “us”, aware even in this moment that it would sound arrogant and whiny.

  
  


He could tell by the flicker of surprise on Gabriel's stance that he hadn't even questioned that until now. The excruciating wait was not one Peter was in the mood for right now, and he only suffered through it for Gabriel to reach his conclusion because he couldn't break the topic aloud first.

  
  


*

  
  


“Things wouldn't continue? ...You and me?” Gabriel said slowly.

  
  


Peter didn't look at him, just tensed his muscles over and over and gritted his teeth. “I can't be with Sylar. I _can't_. Even if you're inside – as long as there's a part of him there too...” He bit his lip when his voice wobbled.

  
  


It was only reasonable, really. Gabriel felt humiliatingly stupid for glossing right over this blip in his plan. Of course Peter wouldn't be able to be close with him if there was a trace of Sylar within... and the worst part about it was that it was so justified that Gabriel had no right to argue at all. Instead he wept silently on the inside. “Which means that... no matter what happens when I join him, this is the end? Of everything?”

  
  


Peter sniffed back air to gather strength and nodded to his bare feet instead of Gabriel. “I'm sorry! I don't want it to be – I _don't_! But it wouldn't be the same after everything he's done, everything he's taken from me...! I-I... I couldn't.” Then he raised his face, taut and irresistible. “So please don't do this... just stay here with me and nothing has to change.”

  
  


It was so tempting, and Gabriel came as close to relenting as he had done yet. But it was already foretold – they were going to lose. Who would know that better than the Oracle herself? No matter which way he looked at it, there was no easy way out: they could charge into battle and possibly lose too many lives, including Peter's; they could run away and avoid it all until the reality of their actions caught up to them and Peter destroyed himself with guilt; or... Gabriel could hand himself over and lose him no matter what became of Sylar, but Peter would be safe. He might not be happy, but at least he'd be safe.

  
  


He cared too much for this emotional, infuriatingly stubborn man – that was his downfall in every regard. He cared too much to leave him, but he also cared too much to stay. “No matter what we do tonight, _everything_ will change, Peter.” Regret blistered away inside, but he didn't let it defeat him. “This is the best way.”

  
  


*

  
  


Peter huffed, grasping at straws, and waved one hand around agitatedly while the other gripped his hair with white knuckles. “'The best way'?! What if it doesn't work and Sylar gets his body back and all his abilities? He could hurt _thousands_ of people. That would be worse than just the hostages. Wouldn't you feel more guilty then?” He cried, wondering if he was suddenly speaking a different language from this other person who seemed not to comprehend a word of it.

  
  


“At least I would have tried to do something. ...I think this is my turn to be a hero.”

  
  


For a second Peter forgot that he was dancing along the razor's edge between what he wanted to keep and what was actually going to happen, and instead just found himself rooted to the spot having lost all the air in his lungs. He had a momentary vision of clarity of how he himself must look from the outside every time he professed his desire to be a hero, to make a difference, and everyone looked at him like he was crazy. Everyone except for Gabriel. The man who was now hunched on the floor cleaning up Peter's mess with delicate diligence.

  
  


How the hell could Peter argue against the guy's idea when it was exactly what _he_ had done over and over, and Gabriel knew that? It wasn't like he could state that it was alright for himself to risk himself and die repeatedly, but as soon as Gabriel wanted to do the same thing it was all horrible and impossible just because Peter said “no”. What made it worthwhile for _him_ _t_ o do it, but not for Gabriel? He knew at once what it was, and it all came back down to value: the watchmaker's life was more important to Peter than his own.

  
  


But that didn't give him the right to dictate and drown in his own hypocrisy, and he knew that too.

  
  


*

  
  


Eighteen ticks echoed out from dozens of time pieces in perfect synchrony. Gabriel meant to fill the gap in conversation, but he never quite worked up the nerve in case Peter was going to fall to pieces on him. It certainly looked possible if his pink nose and eyes had anything to say about it, which was why he had busied himself in the glass rather than allow Peter's hurt to sizzle through him. Then he saw movement close by in his peripheral vision, and suddenly bare skin and fragrant hair was beside him as Peter felt around for glass of his own to lift. “Is this... 'cause of me? 'Cause of what I've said before about helping people?”

  
  


“No.” Okay, maybe it was partly due to it, but certainly not all. “This comes from me. I want to...” He licked his lips again, searching for the right way to phrase it. Bravely, he lifted his face and locked eyes with Peter's hazel gaze, and subsequently sliced his palm open once again when his hand clenched involuntarily. “Feel worthy. I want to be more than only the leftovers of other people – just sitting at home and fixing watches, living on scraps of old memories and avoiding all responsibility. Sylar and Nathan have each made their impact in the world, even if it wasn't necessarily good. Well, _I'm_ the dregs of both people... and have done nothing at all of importance.”

  
  


Gabriel dropped his eyes back to the ground, watching Peter's hands instead of his face. Lovely hands. Strong yet somehow elegant too. He remembered thinking the same thing back in the Baltimore holding cell, then he had chickened out and returned to meeting Peter's gaze because his hands had awoken far too many conflicting and confusing feelings inside. The opposite could very well be said for this moment, book-ending their time together in a kind of poetic irony. He remembered the first time, he'd seen flashes of past violence that hadn't resonated with the guy sitting before him at the table, mixed with brotherly affection that wasn't meant for him. It seemed forever ago now... This time, though, he could feel the ghost of Peter's fingers on his face, his body, touching and tickling him – just him, only for him – and seared the sensations to memory while avoiding the eyes that would break him. “ I want to do more than that. I want to _be_ more.” He mumbled.

  
  


He continued his own retrieval of the tiny specks of glass that were buried in the carpet, swallowing harshly and letting Peter's beautiful hands entrance him. Beautiful to match his face and soul and empathy and patience and understanding... until they stopped moving, and Gabriel had no further excuse to keep staring at them. “You _are_ worthy.” Peter husked, the softness of it more poignant than a top-of-the-lungs yell would have been.

  
  


*

  
  


Yet again, Peter was winded by a new revelation. He'd had no idea Gabriel felt this way. Sure, it wasn't exactly out of nowhere, but he had never expected that it was affecting him to this extent. It was agony to realise that the curse that burdened Peter (the never ending _need_ to be something more than ordinary) was now shared by his only friend. He knew better than anyone that there was no cure and no way to quench the thirst, and he absolutely sympathised, aching in tandem with Gabriel even though he couldn't quite get his head around the guy's skewed perception of himself.

  
  


“You _are_ worthy!” He repeated, stronger this time as it really sank in. “You'd rather run around causing fear and destruction like they did – Sylar _and_ Nathan? Than be who you are?! You're _more_ worthy than them! You're – you're _better_ _t_ han both of them!” It was true, if a little disrespectful to say so on the day of Nathan's funeral. There was no denying that Nathan had caused his fair share of damage, and Peter hated the fact that Gabriel's innocence was pushed down in comparison when purity and kindness were far more precious than power in his eyes.

  
  


He felt more than saw the other man close his eyes and bite his lips the way he usually did when information painfully hit home. “I'm a coward, Peter. A cheat. I need to do something to... _validate_ myself, to really make a difference in the world. I want to be brave and good and heroic... like you.” A dagger-like pain stabbed into Peter's chest, blocking his airway. “If this is the end, I don't want to go out without doing something that actually _matters_.” The taller man then clambered to his feet with his handfuls of glass, but Peter remained gaping on the floor for a moment by himself after his departure.

  
  


Then he yelped. “Are you _kidding_ me?!” He stumbled hastily to his feet, almost tripping over the towel in the process. He hurried after Gabriel, stopped him halfway to the bin and span him around so they could talk face-to-face. Instantly his insides turned to ice when he noticed the unshed water lining those immense eyelashes.

  
  


Great black eyebrows twitched in confusion as Gabriel apparently struggled to wheedle out Peter's meaning. “No, I'm seri-”

  
  


“What the hell d'you think all this is?” Peter waved his arms between himself and the clueless genius, who's shining eyes continued to dart around as he assessed the situation at an uncharacteristic, glacial pace. “What _we_ are? You _know_ what you've done for me – I can't even imagine what my life would be like without you!” He narrowed his eyes in disbelief at Gabriel, wondering for a moment if maybe the guy was possibly just fishing for compliments. Even if he was Peter would happily throw them at him by the dozen, but he struggled to believe that he was genuinely unaware of his importance.

  
  


So Peter puffed out a humourless laugh, raking his glass-free hand through his hair again. “I don't care how cheesy it sounds: before I met you, not as Sylar, not as “Nathan” – _you,_ I wasn't even living! All I had was work: endless shifts in a row, crappy vending machine food, then a handful hours of sleep every few days or so before going right back at it. I didn't talk to anyone, I didn't _have_ , anyone. I dunno how I even survived, but that's _not_ a life.” He huffed again, chewing his lip and feeling heat emanating from his cheeks, but he didn't stop for long should he lose his nerve. “You brought me back into the world, Gabriel. Even if that world is only as big as two apartments and an endless supply of take-out – _you_ did that! YOU.” Multiple memories of a similar conversation with their roles reversed ran through Peter, and so he knew for certain that those acts sufficed as important to this man. Only, seemingly, when it was done by someone else. “That's not “heroic” enough for you? That's not “worthy”?” He coaxed hoarsely, that dagger twisting in his ribcage.

  
  


*

  
  


Suddenly Gabriel's tongue felt too big for his mouth, and he gazed down at Peter's smouldering little being in awe. The man was stammering, seemingly grappling with the amount of what he wanted to say (and was miraculously still not finished!) and now both hands danced around to further emphasise his point. Even if Gabriel had known what to say in reply, he doubted he'd even get a word in anyway.

  
  


“Just because you have traces of other people in you doesn't mean you have to compare yourself to who they were! You don't have to hold yourself to that standard – you're your _own_ person, you're _unique_ , and don't you dare let those guys be an excuse to ignore all the amazing things that you've done!” Then he finally stopped moving, his drying hair curved over his face and the tips fluttering with the force of his panting. “You _don't_ have to hand yourself over to a killer in order to feel worth something.”

  
  


Gabriel sucked in a deep breath, cringing at the shakiness of it that gave away how close he was to a breakdown. Perhaps another time he would have pointed out the irony in that statement coming from that particular person, but now Gabriel grasped after the glorious sentiment that was directed just at him. Now he only wanted Peter more than ever, but was still balancing a pile of bloody glass in his cupped hands and didn't dare cross to the bin and distance himself further from his shining companion. “Thank you.” He said thickly, compressing everything and anything he could muster into it. His heart was still bleeding, and it was becoming harder and harder to accept what he had almost managed to swallow so well until now. “But everything else still stands. We don't really have a better option.”

  
  


A dejected look shattered across Peter's face, but then all too quickly he turned everything inwards on himself and shut himself off from prying eyes. Or at least he would have done, had said eyes not been able to read him so well. More valuable seconds rained down like grains of sand before Peter chucked his handful of glass carelessly back onto the carpet, crossed his arms tightly and tipped his head, trying to keep his expression tight.

  
  


*

  
  


“You promised. That you wouldn't leave me.” Halfway through the sentence his voice died and he sizzled as despair pulled him under even stronger than before. He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly and trying to keep a level head as phantom waves of the glorious vow Gabriel had made a few nights before haunted him. Somehow the urge to cry had receded but now everything else seemed to be compensating for the lack of it. His head started to spin and pins and needles ate their way up his legs and body, but he hid that expertly. Speaking so softly that his voice didn't even have the option of deserting him, Peter raised his eyebrows and burned his gaze into the one that incinerated his insides in return. “You _promised_ that you wouldn't disappear like everyone else.”

  
  


When Gabriel took a step forward, Peter recoiled automatically. It wasn't that he didn't understand Gabriel's point of view – of course he did! It was impulsive, stupidly brave, self-destructive and ultimately the exact type of thing that Peter had done himself too many times. He just didn't want those hands to touch him like this and give him only something more to miss when they were gone from his life forever.

  
  


The hateful, all too familiar sensation of abandonment loomed huge and dense just inside Peter's ring of awareness. But this time he was determined to do more about it than just lie down and let this person leave him behind in the dust. This wasn't the same as Simone choosing Isaac over him and never even telling him, or Matt bailing in the midst of their mission to save Daphne and leaving him to take the fall and the literal bullet for the three of them. This was _Gabriel!_ Who had promised! Who Peter had trusted more intimately than anyone else! And who was the only person in Peter's life to leave him for such a selfless reason, which only made him feel worse for resenting it so.

  
  


*

  
  


“That's not fair. This is different, I _know_ you know that.” Gabriel stated, feeling his entire face and all his sinuses tingle threateningly, and his voice rose in speed and volume as he rambled. “Like you once told me: “it's not that I don't care about you. It's that I care _too much_ ”. You really think I want to go...?! I'm doing it for _you_ , to keep you safe, to _protect_ you, Peter, why are you making this so difficult?!” He mewled, towering angrily and feeling the guy's pain slice gashes right through him.

  
  


“Because! I don't want you to GO!” Peter bellowed, menacing even though he was unarmed and practically naked. Now two hands were tangled in his hair, frustrated and incensed as he pouted up at Gabriel. That expression alone almost set Gabriel off blubbering, but instead he just gritted his teeth and hissed. Why couldn't Peter see this? Why didn't he seem to understand?!

  
  


“I _h_ _ave_ _t_ o go! I _have_ to do this! You don't know what it's like to live inside the shell of someone else – actually, make that _two_ someone else's! I'm ruined, I'm disgusting, I'm incomplete – I always have been! I'm no good for anything, but _this_ is my purpose!” Gabriel blurted, accidentally curling his fingers again and being rewarded by dozens of glass spikes piercing his skin. But he didn't care. He hated that such poison was flowing between them, in this sacred time especially. Frustration and bitterness was _not_ the feelings he wanted to taint his last night with Peter with, but they were sliding down that slippery slope now and he doubted anything could salvage the situation...

  
  


With a snarl Peter paced back a few steps, catching the towel when it slipped a few inches, baring his teeth and slanting his lip even more than usual. Gabriel fumed at this, offended and riled up by the reaction of his companion.

  
  


“You're only making it worse – you can't stop me, just _support_ me! Please!” Gabriel pleaded.

  
  


Peter growled, jabbing a finger at Gabriel. “You don't. Owe. Anyone. _Anything!_ Not Nathan, not Sylar, and not even me! There's nothing to repent for, you've done nothing wrong! Why the hell can't you see that?! Isn't it enough that someone loves you the way you are...?!”

  
  


Then suddenly all anger in the room evaporated. Two beating hearts thumped in a frenzied harmony. Silence engulfed the pair as both men realised what Peter had just said.

  
  


*

  
  


That wasn't how it was supposed to go. Shit. Shit! Caught in the headlights, Peter felt even more exposed than he had until this point. He crossed his arms firmly again, trying to look tough in contrast to his spinning and churning insides. His old insecurities and learned fears rose to taunt him, and he panicked that it was too soon, it was too needy and that he had just provided Gabriel with even more of an incentive to leave him, as was his only past experience on this subject. _S_ _hit_. It wasn't meant to be this way... he hadn't exactly planned when he was going to spring the “L-word” on Gabriel for the first time, but this certainly hadn't been it.

  
  


Then, like a warm breeze playing through his hair and tickling his face, he realised there was no need to panic. He was so used to second-guessing any scrap of good fortune that he didn't even know how to react when something amazing happened. And it had! It had really happened! Sure, they hadn't actually said the words aloud before, but would Gabriel really be willing to walk to his death to protect someone he didn't care about...?

  
  


Suddenly Peter could breathe easy, and it was a feeling unmatched by any for this all-feeling man... to be able to know for sure that he had never been more confident in anything he wanted to say.

  
  


*

  
  


“...You love me?” Gabriel breathed, hardly willing to believe it. Hearing the four little letters strung together and addressed to him was an honour so above his grade that he feared he might have dreamt it.

  
  


Peter squirmed before him, turning a deeper shade of red than he was already, and his attempts to play it cool only captured more of his humility. For a moment Gabriel thought that the guy was going to deny it... but then he let out his breath. “Yeah.” He spoke with such an earnest tone, his lovely face honest and open and unguarded this time. “I do. I love you.”

  
  


Never in Gabriel's young life had he ever been more grateful for his lie-detecting ability, or the absence of skull-pounding tremors. The truth had never tasted so sweet! And in fact, in his experience the thing was usually more of a trick than a treat, but this one was heavenly. So heavenly that less than an hour before signing his soul over to the devil, Gabriel's face split into an ear-to-ear grin. And, finally, he cried. Fat, hot tears rolled down his cheeks, drawn from his heart and consisting of such a sweet substance called love. He dropped his handful of painstakingly gathered glass back onto the carpet, scattering them far and wide.

  
  


The little Petrelli's eyebrows peaked up in the centre and his lips quivered, but despite this he stood his ground and delivered his words eloquently. “I know it's pretty soon to say so, and I know it's only really been five days, but -”

  
  


“Peter!” Gabriel gasped, choking out an elated laugh. He floated across the room, cradled that breathtaking face in his hands and took full advantage of his first tender touch in what felt like forever. Peter's cheeks were scorching, but Gabriel suspected his palms were more so. He stroked his thumbs over high cheekbones, still beaming hugely and getting a humble, crinkle-eyed smile in return from this golden being. “Don't even start to defend it.”

  
  


*

  
  


The smile, the crying and the holding of his face all screamed one wonderful thing, but without the spoken confirmation, Peter couldn't quite make himself relax into it just yet. Even when Gabriel swooped down and kissed him, the empath just took it tensely, hope and anticipation impairing his judgement. He didn't want to ruin the moment, but a lifetime of rejection made it difficult not to worry until he was _absolutely_ sure...

  
  


“Forget the five days...” Gabriel purred and Peter felt his voice rumbling deeply against his chest. “I've loved you, Peter, ever since the first time we met. Obviously I didn't know what it was back then. But now I do. I've felt this way since you first touched my shoulder and promised you'd help me. Since you took me in for no good reason other than selflessness and decided to take a chance on me.” Gabriel smiled again, exhilarated at the confession and ignoring more happy tears trickling down his cheeks.

  
  


A confused, muffled sound left Peter's throat, and he felt his pulse thundering in every inch of his body. “Since...?” Honestly, Gabriel's admission had floored him even though it was better than he had even dared to dream for. In spite of that night's forthcoming downfall, miraculous, platinum heat erupted inside Peter's chest, numbing his injuries and breaking a smile onto his face. This was _not_ _t_ he first time Peter Petrelli had professed his love, but he couldn't even remember the last time someone had said it back. Actually, he wasn't even sure if anyone ever had! Which only made this wonderful, mutual moment all the more sweet, all the more perfect...

  
  


This time when Gabriel dipped his face to Peter's he kissed back hungrily, tasting the wet, salty tang of tears. He clawed at Gabriel's shoulder with his clean hand while attempting to wipe his own blood off the other on his towel, starved for this contact and swimming in it greedily now. Hot fingers appeared on the small of his back, pressing him in closer and supporting him, holding him steady and keeping him close, and Peter melted into Gabriel. This time neither man was working to soothe the other, and they didn't try to drown out the despair. Even here in this embrace (the very place that had been so trustworthy until now) they weren't safe from the reaches of Sylar's shadow or the fate that haunted the night.

  
  


It couldn't have been more than ten seconds before Peter pulled back, burying his face in Gabriel's shoulder and simply hugging him. He breathed in the sensual smell of the man and his clothes and shivered at the heat of toned arms around his bare back. This should have been one of the most wonderful moments of Peter's life, but instead his heart was trampled and leaking and all his scars were gaping open. He'd fallen too deep, flown too close to the sun and was now paying the price for daring to steal such happiness. This – here – it was perfect, it was _right!_ But why did it all have to come crashing down before he'd even had a chance to experience it?

  
  


Peter dug his fingers into the taller man, unable to tear his terrified eyes from the clock face visible over Gabriel's shoulder. There was barely half an hour left... then all of this would be over...

  
  


“I love you.” He lamented hoarsely. He said it again because he could now, and because that privilege wouldn't last much longer. “Don't go... you don't have to go... please... I love you...” He was trying so hard to be the brave person that Gabriel thought he was, but he felt impossibly far from that now.

  
  


*

  
  


Gabriel could feel Peter's chin trembling against his collarbone and would swear that radioactive heat blew him apart and destroyed him from within. He rocked the little bare body back and forth, postponing his reply until he was certain that any looming sobs had faded and wouldn't interrupt it. “Yes I do have to.” He tickled circles into Peter's back and tried to rub away the goosebumps that covered the full expanse of naked flesh. “Please don't cry. It'll only make this harder than it already is.” He begged, knowing for sure he wouldn't be able to resist if he saw even one more tear escape from the man. Even now he had to physically work to tell himself over and over that the decision he had made was the right one, even if it was only the best option out of a pile of worse ones.

  
  


A bitter huff blew onto his neck and the voice was thick and tear-stained. “Like that's possible.”

  
  


“Let's not argue. I've made my decision and I don't want to spend our last minutes fighting. Please.” Gabriel's disobedient eyes sought out his workbench, where dozens of sources counted down to deadline. “This is definitely _not_ what I had envisaged for tonight.” A reminiscent smile toyed briefly with his lips and he leant his cheek against the top of Peter's head. It felt like another century when he had planned their return home after Nathan's wake. “But I guess that ship has sailed, hasn't it?”

  
  


His fantasies of comforting Peter after the funeral in the intimate space of his cramped, single bed until the morning hours seemed ridiculously naïve now. So the last time had been their _last time_. And neither of them had even known to be aware of it, or to savour every deed more than all the previous ones. Gabriel could have easily wept some more just mourning the fact that he was never to be blessed that way again. “But at least there's nowhere else I'd rather be tonight, or anyone else I'd rather be with.” He murmured into Peter's freshly shampooed, sweet-scented hair. “As a last moment, this one's really not so bad.”

  
  


A small, distraught hiccup came from the other man, but when he pulled back and shined his face up at Gabriel, it was fortunately dry and stamped with determination. “Last moment, huh?” He whispered, and an obscenely misplaced flicker of playfulness shone in his eyes. Then two hands snaked up to grasp behind Gabriel's head and every muscle on that exposed, heaving torso stood out visibly. A ripple of something so much stronger than weary acceptance ran through both men, and Peter even managed a tiny, crooked smile that sparked a fire inside Gabriel's navel. “Then I guess we'd better make it one worth remembering...”

  
  


With a passion rivalled only when in mode for battle, Peter lunged the last few inches and crushed their lips together once more. But still he kept pushing, backing Gabriel across the room until he hit the front door and there was no where else to go. The world span around and Gabriel pawed at and hoisted Peter, pinning him to the door as the lovers settled in for the long haul right then and there. After hours of wanting and waiting there was nothing stopping them now, nothing to hold them back, and the time limit provided the incentive to go faster. Desperate, furious, hungry and oppressed, both men helped to tear Gabriel's clothes from his frame and rip away the resilient pink towel so they could feast upon each other properly at last.

  
  


It was unlike anything they had experienced together so far: this time there was no escapement or tender strokes; it was frantic and rough and they hurt each other gloriously in hopes of better drowning out the agony of time compressing around them. They writhed and grinded with a fervour so far untapped, grunting and moaning and panting and groaning while the chain chinked repeatedly and the door bucked on its hinges, loud enough for the whole floor to hear if they chose – hell, probably the ones above and below too – but let them hear!

  
  


It was almost revenge against Sylar: they did it partly for themselves and partly to spite the monster who was intent on tearing them apart. Arms around each other, bare skin sweaty and glistening and slipping together faster and faster until the friction was unbearably exquisite, they were as united as two men possibly could be. For the very last time.

  
  


It wasn't soothing, it wasn't soft, but it was perfect for that moment and Gabriel knew that as long as even the barest hint of him remained in this skull, this memory was one that could never be erased. And so whatever was to come to pass later that night – a part of him, of him and Peter, would live on in this immortal vessel until the end of time.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter had never done it remotely like this before, and tried not to mourn that it was yet another part of his life that he had discovered only when it was too late. It was easy to get absorbed in the moment and he gladly drank in the pain, he craved it to counteract the venom that Sylar's message had coursed through him. The agony was heaven, his body screamed and his muscles burned but he kept regeneration firmly turned off. Even when they dropped to the floor once their legs gave way, when he was thrown down atop the countless of shards of glass and his back was ground consistently into it, he just gritted his teeth and held onto Gabriel only tighter, certain he would starve to death if he didn't have _more_ of him...

  
  


If this was to be the last time, the _real_ last time, then he wasn't going to dull any part of it. He didn't want to miss a single second when every last one was a priceless treasure.

  
  


It was seven minutes to midnight when both men collapsed, spent and shaking and gasping for breath. Peter heaved air back into his lungs and gazed up at Gabriel, hypnotised by the waves of fulfilment crashing through him and the weight of the body pressed heavily atop his own – this trustworthy, reliable, kind-hearted and loving man that Peter wanted to keep more than he had ever wanted to keep anything... possibly even Nathan. Maybe it was just his hormones talking, but he couldn't recall fearing the loss of anything quite this much... so, naturally, it was going to be taken from him like a dismissed child and his most prized possession.

  
  


Gabriel looked down from above, trembling all over, caressing Peter's throat and shoulder with a searing, sweaty, sticky hand. The empath's heart couldn't possibly beat faster, but it stuttered at the avid look of bewilderment on Gabriel's handsome face. He, himself, almost couldn't believe what they'd just done either, and he praised his choice not to heal during the act because the glass slicing his skin open now and the strain still firing through his muscles was the best proof he had. He knew he couldn't keep the wounds forever, but they would remain raw as long as he lay here and tremors continued to roll through him from head to toe.

  
  


Still panting, Peter lifted a seizing arm before he lost use of it all together and touched the other man's jaw, letting his fingers explore by touch. He scratched through rough stubble, traced over hot, swollen lips and up the hollow of his cheek before pushing Gabriel's sweaty, stringy hair back and soaking up everything about his face. _That_ face. The one that had caused Peter so much agony yet also so much joy.

  
  


...He would miss him so much...

  
  


It seemed crazy that it had been only last night that he had been looking into Nathan's face, missing him too, and once again could have yelled to the heavens at how unfair it all was that he was destined to lose the two most important people in his world in such a short time. But he didn't want to ruin Gabriel's last moment (no, _their_ last moment) with more tears and heartache. He knew that this would be the last time he would ever lie beneath this body and hated the thought of it being anything less than loving and beautiful.

  
  


Against the wishes of his protesting limbs, Peter leant up on his bleeding elbows and licked gently at Gabriel's lips for the thousandth time in twenty minutes, committing the taste to memory. Clammy fingers cradled the back of his neck, keeping him raised, and the couple lay entwined on the jagged and bloody carpet with their foreheads pressed together, breathing in the same air and just basking in each other's presence.

  
  


“I love you, Peter.” Gabriel declared, and Peter could taste the words on his breath.

  
  


“I know.” He mumbled, and he meant it. He brushed his nose against Gabriel's affectionately, longingly, saying goodbye without having to actually voice it. He couldn't bear it. And at five minutes to midnight, he set the wonderful words free once again and watched them flutter away from his heart to be cradled in the walls of someone else's. “I love you, Gabriel.”

  
  


  
  


***

  
  


“Go on. Do it.”

  
  


“I _will_.”

  
  


“...You have to do it now. We only have two minutes.” Gabriel pressed, continuing to wipe away the remnants of glass from Peter's now healed but red-soaked back. He hadn't even noticed that this had been happening until afterwards and of course felt awful for unwittingly imparting the wounds. But he understood why Peter had let it happen, and now drew subconscious patterns in the blood as he absorbed the sight of this extraordinary man.

  
  


“I know.”

  
  


The cell phone shook in Peter's fingers and his thumb hovered over Matt Parkman's contact. But he showed no sign of taking the next step. “ _Now!_ ” Gabriel insisted as the seconds sped up around them and the room compressed and his last dregs of freedom passed by... Just as he was about to grab the thing to make the call himself, Peter tapped the phone and held it up to his ear, the one closest to Gabriel so they could both listen.

  
  


It rang slowly, each reoccurring tone one a relief because it instilled reckless hope in Gabriel (and he knew it did in Peter too) that maybe Sylar wouldn't answer. Maybe it was the wrong number? And if he didn't pick up then they could hardly be blamed for it – they _did_ try at least...

  
  


Then the line clicked and those tender seeds of unfulfilled dreams died.

  
  


Multiple screams and cries floated through the speaker, tinny and distant but audible enough that Gabriel held his breath and Peter's knuckles turned white around the phone. “Oh, _here_ he is everyone! Your hero has finally decided to save the day!” A sing-song tone in the wrong voice sounded out in the distance. “You can all relax now. Didn't I tell you not to get all worked up over nothing?” The voice laughed merrily, as if it was all a joke. Then, closer than before and with no trace of humour at all, the man sneered. “Cutting it a little close aren't you, _Petrelli_...?”

  
  


Gabriel's stomach somersaulted and he intensified his gaze on the man he loved, half sure he was going to hang up before resolving anything. There was still the chance he was going to back out... Gabriel let his reassuring eyes roam avidly over Peter's face: still heated from their recent endeavour and admirably serene given the circumstances.

  
  


“...Okay Sylar.” Peter caved. His hand crept into Gabriel's, holding on tightly. “You win.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, just one chapter this time but it's a long one X) I really hope you're having fun reading – don't be shy to let me know, if and when you feel like it ^.^ Hopefully I'll get the next chapter up before too long!


	16. Don't Say Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a sensation unlike any other: staring into his own face and unable to recognise it, twisted and distorted by too much power...

Bright lights. Red and blue. They danced across the sky, the buildings, the many watchful faces of the crowd that had gathered in the vicinity of such a horrific situation. It was after midnight now and they had received no further word from the abductor, still hidden away in the depths of the library building with dozens of innocent people at his mercy. Pedestrians, police and reporters huddled closer in their groups, unable to do anything but wait to see if this anonymous hero, this man “Peter”, would arrive and make his deal with officer Matthew Parkman.

  
  


Eyes and cameras scanned every street leading up to the scene, desperate and anxious to catch any sign of him... but nobody thought to watch the sky.

  
  


Two silhouettes, almost invisible against the night, soared silently beneath the clouds and dropped onto the roof of the library. Gabriel caught himself clumsily, either due to numb legs or underdeveloped flying skills he wasn't quite certain, meanwhile his best friend landed impressively well beside him.

  
  


“Are you alright?” Gabriel asked vaguely so it could have possibly been referring to the flight here, but who was he kidding? Peter was fidgeting madly, pale and feverish and looking like he was about to pass out. Basically, he looked just how Gabriel felt.

  
  


Instead of an answer, Peter just shot a dubious glance from under furrowed brows and continued to twitch in indecisiveness. Like he didn't know which direction to follow and was ripping at the seams. Gabriel took a deep breath of the city air, tasting smoke, exhaust fumes and the crisp night's breeze, and wished they could be back in the safety and seclusion of his apartment. He knew a similar want was running through Peter too, although neither man voiced this. “Here.” He held out his arm, as per the plan, and carefully watched as Peter drew regeneration out of him.

  
  


“Go see if you can find a way in, I'll check nobody saw us.” Peter muttered, resentment clear in his tone and body language. He wanted to be here even less than Gabriel did, but the watchmaker truly appreciated his presence, even if it came with a scowl and murky cloud of regret. He watched his hero stalk over to the edge of the building and peek over the side, then set about his own search for the door into the building. It didn't take long to find it, and he promptly called Peter back to his side.

  
  


They were both stalling, as much as they knew they shouldn't. “We should go then.” Gabriel said timidly, and pretended he hadn't seen the colour drain further from his friend's pained face. They crossed the rooftop shoulder to shoulder until they reached the door. Gabriel made every motion with deliberate grace, ensuring to follow each one through and denying the urge to turn and run away – especially after making such a point to get Peter here in the first place. It hadn't been easy, but at least they had made it this far.

  
  


But when Gabriel broke the lock with a burst of telekinesis and pulled the door ajar, Peter darted out a hand and slammed it closed again. “Wait.”

  
  


Gabriel sighed, sensing the gears winding inside that head but unable to interpret them quite right. “What are you thinking?” He murmured. “We can't back out now – he's waiting for us.” If he wasn't mistaken, the infamous glint in those hazel eyes was coming out to play once again.

  
  


Staring up defiantly, Peter then displayed an enviable bout of calmness. All the knots seemed to come loose inside him, and he finally fell still. “Let me go in there alone and try to talk him down.” He said quietly, voice almost drowned out by the unseen commotion down at the sidewalk.

  
  


Gabriel huffed and retreated a few steps, balling his fists and trying so, so hard not to let irritation and impatience cloud this moment. He had thought they were over this – Peter had agreed! He'd said he wasn't going to kick and fight the whole way through! “C'mon, Pete! You _know_ that's not going to work! You'll never get close enough for one thing, and it's _me_ he's after for another-!”

  
  


“Okay, okay, shhh...” Peter soothed, chewing his lips and pressing into Gabriel in a dejected hug. “I just wanted to give you one last chance.” He burrowed into the taller man, melting the exasperation out of him.

  
  


Gabriel tried to stay strong. But when he felt little lips press to his neck and hot, shaky fingers caress down his arm to his wrist, he crumbled. He cradled the back of Peter's head, breathing in the scent of his hair and skin – possibly for the very last time, and didn't resent the man at all for making a fuss. After all how could he? The very fact that someone cared enough about him to be so stubborn in the first place was miraculous. He couldn't believe he had been so blessed with this little person, and cursed that it was only for such a short while. But then, he once again convinced himself, he was lucky to have known him at all. Gorgeous Peter, caring Peter, honest, brave and loving Peter who would never let him down or betray him -

  
  


Then a faint, metallic _click_ sounded out around them and Peter jumped back out of his embrace, eyes wide and apologetic. Confused, Gabriel dropped his gaze to where his wrist felt suddenly heavy – only to see it chained to the door handle with a pair of NYPD handcuffs.

  
  


*

  
  


“Wh-?” Gabriel blinked at the absurdity of the scene.

  
  


“I'm sorry.” Peter insisted, voice wavering despite his valiant attempt to keep it steady. “I am. I didn't want it to come to this, I swear... I just need a head start.” He knew the handcuffs wouldn't hold Gabriel for long, but they were the only thing in the vicinity that he had been able to acquire. Telekinesis sparked under his skin instead of regeneration, and he was pretty sure that nobody in the crowd below had noticed the handcuffs zipping through the air towards him. He wished he could have had the time to find something more substantial, but at least the ones he had should be enough to give him the time he needed. Already guilt was boiling up inside at this deceit and the betrayal in his lover's eyes, but even this was better than the alternative.

  
  


“P... _Peter!_ ” Gabriel yelped, looking stunned beyond belief that Peter would trick him, and this subsequently seared through the empath's fragile conscience.

  
  


“I'm sorry!” He repeated, gritting his teeth. “But I can't just walk you in there! I'm not giving up on you, Gabriel. I promised when we first met that I would help you, look after you. And that's what I'm gonna to do.” He took a deep breath, working up the strength to do this. The voice of the dreaded serial-killer still chimed in his head from the phone call, and he held onto the man's fateful words firmly. “All Sylar needs is to get close enough for one touch, right? Well so do I.”

  
  


*

  
  


Horrified, Gabriel's voice tore out strangled and sore. “But you could get _hurt_!” He wailed, unable to believe the contrasting action to Peter's loving look and piqued eyebrows. All the courage he had built up for this, everything that had happened during and after the argument, Peter's submission to the plan... had been for nothing? He couldn't begin to imagine that it had all been a plan to play him from the moment they saw the news – most likely it was a last minute plot that Peter was improvising, but that didn't make it any less reckless. Or dishonest. “You agreed!” He stated desperately. The metal around his wrist held fast but he clawed at it uselessly anyway, thrown as to the workings of the unfamiliar object.

  
  


Peter sighed, looking awfully resigned to the situation. “I know.” He said, knowing exactly what the dangers were but still willing to charge right into it in his usual carelessly noble fashion. Shocked still, Gabriel watched numbly as Peter's fingers twitched, fighting the urge to reach out and touch while visibly battling his guilt. Then he closed his eyes and grabbed Gabriel's shoulder, rippling fuzzy tingles through the taller man and sparking the telltale golden glow of yet another ability being stolen without consent. Gabriel grabbed after him but Peter dodged his fruitless clutches.

  
  


“What did you take? What are you planning?!” The trapped man squeaked, finding his hands disobedient as he fumbled with the restraint. A glint of hesitation like a shooting star streamed across Peter's face, and for a moment Gabriel thought he had got him. But then all the smaller man did was burn a hole right through Gabriel with his earnest, entrancing eyes and disappear through the door. “Wait! PETER!” He shouted after him to no response, tugging on his chain and feeling the cuff bite painfully into his skin. He reached awkwardly for telekinesis, frantically running back and forth between the option of taking the time to understand and pick the lock, attempting to saw through the metal, or blasting the thing clean off along with his entire hand.

  
  


The other man's footsteps scuffed away downstairs and Gabriel, abandoned and alone with only the flashing blue and red lights for company, desperately counted every single one.

  
  


  
  


***

  
  


 

“Oh, come _on_ already! I've told you – he's coming to save you, stop whining! I can hardly hear myself think...” Sylar snapped, resisting the urge to rub his pounding temples, as that would show weakness.

  
  


_Y-you think that's bad? Huh? Yeah – try living with a sarcastic psychopath in your head!_

  
  


Sylar grumbled to himself, mentally swearing at Parkman's consciousness while staying impressively composed on the outside. Unlike the cop, _he_ would not humiliate himself by shouting at an invisible person if he could help it. In fact, he wouldn't even entertain the whole conflicting-people-in-this-head thing that Parkman had been too weak to handle. So Sylar prodded the unwanted voice back into place, keeping him firmly blocked out. It was only because he was tired that his hold on this body was beginning to weaken, he told himself, and so climbed up from the cold marble ground and began pacing along the row of hostages to regain some energy.

  
  


Every scared whimper or irritating sob echoed loudly inside the vast chamber atop the grand, winding staircase, and Sylar plodded along the length of the banister at a leisurely pace, making sure to look nonchalant and relaxed in front of witnesses. But really he was bristling. It was draining to be in control of a body that didn't have regeneration aiding as a little pick-me-up whenever he wanted it, let alone one that was sufficiently less fit than his true one and still bruised and aching in places from the rather embarrassing way he'd lost the fight back in LA.

  
  


He was getting impatient now, angry and exhausted from travelling across the country paired with the mental strain of mind-controlling twenty two people (plus averting every internal attempt to overthrow his position). He hated the smell of Parkman's skin and sweat that blocked his nose and was driving him crazy. Shit, he couldn't wait to be free of this cage at last and be his own person again. He could almost taste his freedom, probably soaring towards him on the wind at this very moment, armed with silly floppy hair and a furious pout created just for him...

  
  


Mostly he was excited, famished for this! But there was a definite twinge of fear in him too. Yes, fear within this grand and magnificent person who answered to no one and could do anything he damn well pleased! Of course, Sylar would never admit it to anyone, but it was there all the same: what if it didn't work? He was almost certain that touching his body and using Parkman's ability to push himself back inside ought to do it, and he had delivered that story confidentially to Petrelli on the phone. But really the crippling anxiety that he could be trapped here forever weighed uncomfortably in his already heavy gut.

  
  


He continued to prowl across the platform (the hostages wincing in a wave as he passed) and waited. Surely they would be here soon? He doubted that Peter Petrelli would turn his back on these people – c'mon, really? - but worry and doubt were haunting him nonetheless. Not-his-heart beat frantically in not-his-chest, and Sylar couldn't remember feeling this vulnerable in a _long_ time. Maybe even ever. As a pathetic and weak watchmaker at least his body had had a soul and his soul a body. Even if he had nothing else, he had been whole and alive. But now...

 

*

 

Every step he took rang out in the ghostly vacant and musty halls. Bookshelves towered to the ceiling on either side, and he weaved his way through the maze of books all alone, terrified, determined and expecting the deadly shadow of Sylar to jump out at him at every turn.

  
  


He wanted to go back. But he was doing this for love. He wanted to hide here in the corridors of the labyrinth instead of face the beast at the centre. But he had no other option.

  
  


*

  
  


Finally, _wonderfully_ _,_ the unmistakeable sound of hurried footsteps echoed nearby, and Sylar composed himself and watched the doorway with baited breath. This man was a lot of things: heartless, an abandoned child, a monster, the creation of a greedy geneticist, the boogeyman, an unwitting tool in many people's plans... but one thing he decidedly _wasn't_ was an idiot. Of course he was anticipating some hero-bullshit and a noble rescue attempt to be thrust into play the very second Petrelli burst into the scene. However, that expectation didn't at all dampen this moment...

  
  


The object of his morbid desires grew ever closer and already Sylar was sifting through the best introductions to rub in the face of his enemy... then the figure came into view at last, all the witty one-liners faded away and Sylar laid eyes on his own face for the first time in months.

  
  


It was, to put it bluntly, rather unspectacular. He had entertained imaginings of the first time he'd see himself from the outside: fearsome, intimidating or at the very least, _impressive_... but the man before him was none of those things. Yes, he was familiar (amazingly so), but he was also terrified, out of breath and not at all worthy to possess the most powerful body in the world. Sylar actually sneered, raking his gaze unappreciatively over the neatly combed middle-parting down to the scuffed toes of his old shoes.

  
  


“What the hell have you done to me? I look like a choir group poster boy.” He scorned. So it really must be the soul that makes a person special, Sylar thought. However, regardless of the, ironically, less than extraordinary appearance – he had never been so happy to see himself before.

  
  


The person opposite him looked around nervously as if searching for help from someone or something in particular. He seemed lost, far too out of his depth but, to his credit, he was clearly brave enough to have come here at all. Then Sylar's own eyebrows lowered across the balcony at himself, annoyingly ungroomed. “S...Sylar? I'm here now, what do you want me to do?”

  
  


Sylar tipped his head slightly, wondering if the guy was really that dense. “What d'you think? Give me my body back.”

  
  


The man nodded, breathing heavily but trying to look strong. Sylar had to admire that to a degree. “Okay. But first you have to let the hostages go.”

  
  


At this, the serial-killer only laughed, clutching his stomach. “Wow. Hanging around with Saint Peter must've really rubbed off on you! That's exactly the type of heroic crap he likes to spew!”

  
  


The other person, _Gabriel_ (Sylar hated to use the name his mother had given him to reference this imposter, but did so for want of a better one), scowled heavier and reached a hand out. Okay, _now_ he looked intimidating, and Sylar marvelled at that even after he noticed the hand was trembling uncontrollably. So it was all a bravado to hide how scared he really was – apparently some aspects of Sylar had lingered behind in his body after all. He smirked while arming Parkman's ability in his direction, just in case. Sweet, innocent _Gabriel_ may be pathetic and naïve, but that didn't mean his abilities were. He could still very well be dangerous.

  
  


“Let them go, you don't need them anymore.” He said quietly, and Sylar got chills at hearing his own voice sent his way. It really was a bizarre sensation, and his lips tugged up further into a grin.

  
  


“Right.” He snorted, finding genuine amusement in that. “You don't really expect me to believe it's going to be that simple do you? Where is our dearest Petrelli, anyway...?” He opened his arms wide and swivelled on the spot, having just noticed the blatant absence of the third member of the party. “Circling around back to take me by surprise while you're the distraction? Please. The hostages stay until I get what I want.”

  
  


In response, twenty two people whimpered and cried only more, and Sylar tightened his mental hold on them. Standing his ground, he stared into his own eyes (were they always that intense?) and waited it out until he won, of course.

  
  


*

  
  


He had to do it. Even though it was dangerous, even though he had no guarantee it was even going to work. Leeching strength from cherished memories of movie nights and two apartments and warm, loving arms, he didn't turn and run away like every instinct told him to do. Instead he only waited for the inevitable checkmate.

  
  


*

  
  


Sylar had done well playing it cool so far, but his facade was curling at the edges and he didn't much care about that now that his goal was literally four feet in front of him. He was sure that the other man would make his way over in due time, but that wasn't time that Sylar was willing to suffer through. Gabriel was hesitating, dangling the prize just outside of his reach. Practically salivating now, Sylar lassoed another ring of his ability and snagged his twenty third charge inside it. “Come to me.” He demanded, blazing fire into the other man's gaze.

  
  


Gabriel seemed to deflate, closed his eyes in resignation and shuffled forward on graceful legs (Sylar had almost forgotten that not everyone lumbered around like a certain telepathic cop, and this only heightened his eagerness to get back into his body). Anticipation prickled along Sylar's palm and a grin flitted across his face when Gabriel extended trembling fingers his way...

  
  


If Petrelli _was_ waiting in the shadows to attack him, he'd better get a move on before Sylar got all his powers back, because nothing would stop him once he was whole again. Really, Sylar was a little suspicious that this had all unfurled so smoothly, but he was hardly about to wait for the inevitable ambush. Goodbye Parkman, goodbye living in someone else's head, goodbye little _Gabriel_...

  
  


Sylar lunged the remainder of the gap towards his long-awaited body and grabbed onto his fingers with a vice-like grasp. YES! FINALLY! Now he, too, closed his eyes and prepared to bask in the wonderful sensation of becoming whole again... But nothing happened. Confused, frustrated, he shook out Parkman's ability and tried again, pushing every aspect of himself into this other person. But once again he was shut out, barred, and stayed firmly chained in this vessel. Like a square peg in a round hole, he didn't fit right. Something was wrong.

  
  


By the time Sylar finally recognised the numbing sensation in his arm and the accompanying golden light that washed up and over the men's clasped hands, it was too late to stop it. Before he could even get a tighter grip on his ability to protect himself, the face before him melted and shifted into the most infuriatingly familiar visage. “No!” He uttered, furious that he'd been bested by the same trick twice now. “ _No!_ ”

  
  


His building rage was punctured by Peter Petrelli's voice ringing around inside his head.  _Let those people go! Now!_ He commanded wordlessly, and as much as Sylar tried to protest and fight and throttle the life out of this specimen... he had no choice but to comply.

  
  


*

  
  


Senses whirring, Peter focused all his strength on bending Sylar to his will, using both hands to direct the full wrath of the ability that he so despised onto this man. He gritted his teeth and pushed harder, digging deeper than he ever had into the recesses of this power. He was shaking all over, amazed that it had actually worked, and watched as the hostages came to their senses, one by one.

  
  


“Get outta here! Go!” Peter ordered, this time with nothing more than good intention and the passion for his cause. “Cops are outside, they'll take care of you!” He insisted, blood swirling loudly in his ears. Once again in their right minds, the hostages clambered down from the banister, writhing and wobbling as they came back to themselves. Someone screamed, someone cried, and all of them struggled to interpret the sight of two telepathic men standing before them on the balcony. Panic truly began to spread, the crowd dissolved into a frenzied mass and all fought for space as they pelted down the grand staircase as fast as they could make it.

  
  


Peter hated that this duty had fallen to him, especially after these people had been through so much already, but he cast a blanket cover story loosely over their tormented minds: a vague, terror-confused story about a man with a gun who had already fled the premises, including no hint at all of the input of superhuman abilities. It wasn't the best that those innocents deserved, but the time and effort to provide so were beyond Peter since he was struggling to contain his worst enemy with nothing more than sheer willpower.

  
  


*

  
  


The hostages fled, their escape ringing out loudly as they wrestled their way downstairs. Instruction now completed, slowly the fog began to clear inside Sylar's mind and his fury bounced back with a vengeance. Who the hell did this guy think he was?! The killer resented Peter's nerve to dare even _think_ of re-hashing an old tactic to stop him, let alone _use_ it – and successfully! This was more humiliating than when Parkman had blabbered away at the voice in his head like a madman!

  
  


Then expertly, as always, Sylar channelled this weakness and rage into power, and let a cold chuckle drip down over Peter's determined face. “Oh, you should  _not_ have done that, Peter...”

 

Before the little man could even realise that he was no longer in control, Sylar leapt at him and socked him in the mouth – sending him sprawling back onto the floor, coughing blood onto the marble. He had chosen a physical punch over telepathic torment due to the stress-relieving side of it, as well as to experience the oh-so-satisfying sight of Peter-do-gooder-Petrelli paying for his insolence. And boy, had that felt good...

  
  


*

  
  


Pain spasmed through Peter's back and jaw and he reeled, scrambling backwards as Sylar descended from above. “I knew it was too easy!” The killer snarled, hauling Peter off the floor by the front of his jacket.

  
  


“Didn't stop you from falling for it.” Peter spat back, scratching for leverage and finding it in the insides of Sylar's arms.

  
  


He crushed his fists down on Sylar's elbows, causing him to drop his grip and wince while Peter rolled out from under him. He punched the small of the bigger man's back, making him arch backwards into Peter's grasp. He looped an arm around Matt's throat, holding Sylar twisted back and practically defenceless while he also fought to constrain the man's hands in front of him.

  
  


Sylar wasn't giving in willingly and, panicking that he wouldn't be able to hold him this way for long, Peter adjusted his grip on his current ability. Swallowing the last of his doubt, he hissed gravelly into the man's ear. “Now you're gonna leave here. And _never_ come after Gabriel again.” He commanded, heart pounding and conscience warbling, but right then Peter didn't care what his action would mean for Matt or his family, and least of all this despicable cretin under his command. “Go far away, Sylar. And never come back.”

  
  


*

  
  


Again, Sylar was many things, but stupid he was not. Prepared this time, Peter's words bounced harmlessly off his mental guard, serving only to incite his wrath. It was laughably easy to turn the tables on Peter once Sylar fake-slumped and the guy foolishly thought he'd been victorious. All it took was one burst of energy to tear free from his physical bonds and spin on the little idiot, catching him off guard and pinning him to the ground with all the force and weight of a man twice his size.

  
  


“Nice try, _Petrelli_.” Sylar laughed bitterly, sneering down into Peter's outraged face, crushing the man's chest with his forearm. “Although I will admit I'm a little disappointed in you.” He allowed disdain to drip off his tongue along with the misplaced sense of betrayal he felt towards the little man. “Aren't you supposed to be above all this? And here was me thinking you were the type of person who would rather die than sentence a family man to an eternity of _me_ in his mind...!” Peter tried to retort, something self-righteous and “noble” no doubt, but Sylar pressed onto him viciously, compressing his chest and cutting his reply short.

  
  


He didn't much fancy another repeat of their liaison back in Los Angeles, so he cut right to the chase. This guy thought he would just waltz in here and order Sylar into non-existence did he...?! Then it was only fair that Sylar taught the guy a lesson or two before he made him _beg_ for mercy...

  
  


*

  
  


Nothing but blackness. Then Peter revived, feeling the scratchy coolness of embroidered silk beneath his cheek. Suddenly wide awake, he pushed himself into a sitting position on a luxurious couch and looked about himself, confused. Sylar...? The library...? But somehow he wasn't that worried about how he had managed to apparently teleport himself away from such a crucial situation, and with an ability he no longer had.

  
  


He knew this place... or at least he _should_ know it, he could feel it. But for some reason it was taking too long to recognise the large windows, expensively patterned walls and wrought iron chandelier... Peter climbed stiffly to his feet, slowly piecing it all together. He had just about formed the name of his surroundings on his tongue when every detail he had worked so hard to collect was slapped away from him by the last sound he had expected to hear.

  
  


“S'good to see you, Pete.”

  
  


Peter span on the spot, looking over the expanse of the strange location and into the chiseled face of his brother. _His brother! Nathan!_ The very next second he was preparing to hurtle himself across the room and squeeze the senator to death... but then he hesitated. It was too familiar.

  
  


“Is... is it really... _you?_ ” His voice wavered out, pitiful and thin in the large space.

  
  


The other man nodded once, a self-assured “who else would it be” little twitch of the head, without so much as disturbing one hair from it's neatly groomed place. Then his face cracked into one of his all-teeth, winning smiles, and he held his arms out wide, warm and inviting. “'Course it's me.”

  
  


Yes, Peter knew that Nathan was dead, but for some reason that didn't feel like the impossible boundary it usually did. He ached to believe his eyes so badly, although past mistakes tugged him back. But this was different from the Gabriel shape-shifting thing – _this_ Nathan really acted, really _felt_ just like his big brother...

  
  


Finally Peter let out another of those pathetic whispers, and it was a wonder the senator could even hear it at all. “I'm so sorry, Nathan.” He confessed, voice cracking. Nathan just shushed him and shook his head, as if it was ridiculous of Peter to even _think_ of apologising. “I – I should've stayed with you. We could have fought him together!” Shiny, hazel eyes once again roamed over the room, finally placing it as the fateful Stanton Hotel suite where everything had gone wrong. “I should've _done_ something more than leave you to face Sylar alone.”

  
  


Nathan's smile only grew brighter, infected by his affection. “We're stronger together than we are apart. Yeah.” He blinked once, calmly, in resignation. However it was only for the sentiment and not to blame or agree with Peter, as much as the younger brother needed it to be.

  
  


*

  
  


Even now Sylar could feel the empath's weakened attempts to protect his consciousness from being breached, but Sylar was stronger than him. He'd had lots of recent practice with this ability (as well as literally living with the master of it), and so it hadn't taken long before he'd successfully shoved his way into Peter's bruised mind, pointedly ignoring the other man's efforts to keep him out. He'd burst through the boundaries, violating this private space, and set about pillaging to his heart's content. He didn't _have_ to be so rough, but he liked to think of it as a personal touch for this particular victim. He'd plowed ruthlessly through the most intimate inner workings of his prisoner, past useless information and many memories of Peter with Gabriel that Sylar wouldn't even chance a peek at. Discarding the lesser goods, he'd ripped straight on through until he hit the deepest, most tender spot inside the sensitive recesses of his adversary.

  
  


And now Peter was helpless, open, unable to stop him even if he tried.

  
  


*

  
  


A ripple of pain throbbed over Peter as he finally freed the words he thought he'd never get to say. “I miss you, Nathan.” He breathed out a shaky sigh, thinking back over the past weeks and all the times he'd longed for his brother's help, company or advice. And now here he was at last, standing before him. “I _need_ you. Everything's gone wrong, I'm in way over my head here! I can't see a way out of this – no matter what I do, someone's gonna get hurt!” His cry rang out briefly before it was swallowed up in the lush furniture and pristine décor of this serene, beautiful place. “I... I dunno what to do. _Tell me_ what to do! Please!”

  
  


Desperation bled out of him shamelessly, and even if this was all a dream, he wanted nothing more than to hug his brother and allow someone else to take control for once. He was tired of this game, he didn't want the responsibility that was smothering him now. Even just the idea of letting Nathan do his usual and fix Peter's mess was enough to start him heading across the room, an imploring hand outreached before him. “Help me. You know how to sort this, right?”

  
  


The outlines of Nathan had started to fade slightly, and the greatest influence in Peter's life shook his head, the thousand watt smile dimming just slightly. “You're just gonna have to be the smart one this time, Pete.”

  
  


“But I don't wanna be, I want _you_.”

  
  


“C'mon, don't be a baby.” Nathan scolded with an affectionate twinkle in his eye. “You can do it. Just do what you always do: fight for what's right... and nobody can stop you.”

  
  


Steadily, the suite began to spin around the brothers, dissolving and re-painting itself over and over again. Peter picked up into a run, but the other end of the room stretched away and he never got closer – the harder he tried, the faster he ran – Nathan only shrank further and further into the distance.

  
  


“Nathan! C'mon, help me out here!” Hand shaking, Peter's meek call barely made it past his lips before it disintegrated. Blurred at the edges, Nathan only watched his little brother struggle, with “the look” plastered over his face – the one that meant Peter was being stupid and over-reacting and should stop embarrassing himself before people started talking. “Help me! Please!” Peter meant to shout, but this time he made no sound at all.

  
  


With a _bang_ , the floor-to-ceiling window burst open beside Nathan, the curtains billowed and in one gust of wind the entire room was ripped apart like the aftermaths of a super-powered duel. Then a tall figure floated in through the window, showing off the ability that belonged to the dead Petrelli brother. Nathan turned his attention to Sylar now, ignoring Peter even as he sprinted faster on the spot and screamed with no voice whatsoever.

  
  


“ _NO! Nathan! Don't go near him! Don't let him do it! Nathan!_ ” He battled with his invisible restraints, hopeless and breaking at the edge of sanity. He knew exactly what was going to happen but he couldn't stop it, he couldn't get closer, he couldn't make a sound and he couldn't tear his gaze away.

  
  


A slave to his condition, Peter was forced to watch as Sylar lifted his hand and sliced his forefinger before the other man's throat, straight-faced and uncaring. Nathan spluttered, backing away until he slumped into an armchair, and Peter teetered on his feet, shocked still at last and shaken to the core. It wasn't how he'd imagined it to have happened, yet at the same time it was so, so much worse. He was haunted now, cursed by this nightmare which he would never be able to un-see. Peter felt himself be ripped to shreds, eaten alive and then spat back out in his mangled, half-chewed state. He was struggling to stand, he was struggling to breathe, and the only person here who could have saved him was bleeding out across the room.

  
  


Then his brother's murderer turned to stare directly at Peter, piercing the veil that held him back from the scene. Not even one hint of remorse swam in those eyes, just a triumphant glint as Nathan died, choking and gagging, before the traumatized eyes of his distraught baby brother...

  
  


*

  
  


Holding down the paramedic, keeping him in place, Sylar ground his teeth with the effort of maintaining this illusion. He pressed his palm harder to the man's forehead, channelling his own experience of Nathan high-and-mighty Petrelli's death into the younger brother's consciousness.

  
  


Beneath him, Peter bucked and writhed in response to the vision, his eyes scrunched shut and wet from the terror he was trapped in. Sylar was almost compelled to feel sorry for the guy, but not so much that he'd let up anytime soon. This was justified (not to mention a little bit fun) – Peter thought it fair to trap Sylar in _his_ nightmare, Parkman's subconscious, and be stamped out of existence as if he meant nothing! So Sylar had deliberately searched for the weapon that would punish Peter the most and now intended on using it repeatedly.

  
  


He was counting on all the gory details of Nathan's murder to even the “fairness” scale a little, to put Peter in his place... However he hadn't been counting on an unseen intruder barging into the scene.

  
  


“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” A formidable, familiar voice sliced across the space, and Sylar turned just in time to catch a glimpse of one of his own most fearsome glares shot his way. Followed by a blinding flash of white-blue light that crackled along Matt's skin like acid, tearing him inside out in agony.

  
  


*

  
  


The Stanton suite, Sylar, and the last glimpse of his brother's dead corpse evaporated from Peter's awareness in a flash of bright light. It temporarily blinded him, and when his vision recovered he found himself back in the library, his back to cold stone. Panting and crying, he sat up groggily, shaking his head and petrified this was just another nightmare pulling him under. But after a few seconds the clammy fingers of fear faded, and Peter noticed Matt Parkman crumpled on the ground, unconscious, for the second time in a week. Faint crackles of electricity danced over the raised hairs on his arms, but his chest was still rising and falling.

  
  


“Peter!” He looked over to see Gabriel hurry across and help him to his feet. “What happened?! What was he doing to you?! A-are you alright?!”

  
  


“Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm fine.” Peter cleared his throat, hastily drying his face with the back of his hand. Exhausted, he tried to hide the toll Sylar's torture had taken on him and wiped away both remnants of his tears and his burst lip from the punch. His face was smarting dully and he spat blood again, tasting the stuff washing freshly over his tongue.

  
  


Fuck, it had felt so real in the moment. Even with flowing walls and a morphing room, he had been so present for the events in the suite. Looking back on it now though, he saw it for what it was. The reality of the encounter was slipping away from him like nothing more than the dream it had been, leaving him wounded and thoroughly shaken in the aftermath.

  
  


It hadn't been real – any of it. He hadn't just spoken to Nathan, it had only been Sylar cruelly playing with his emotions and memories to call up an echo of his brother. Despite that, though, he couldn't help but latch onto the words Nathan had said. It had sounded so like him... he wondered if maybe the mind-trip had been the very thing he'd needed to nudge him in the right direction.  _'Fight for what's right'_...

  
  


“What was he doing to you?!”

  
  


“He just – just mind games. Really, I'm fine.” Peter insisted.

  
  


He doubted his answer satisfied Gabriel, but the watchmaker didn't push it as they crossed the space together to look down upon the battered and bruised body on the ground. “Is he still alive?” Fingers clamped down tightly on Peter's arm, partly due to possession and partly due to guilt, he suspected.

  
  


“Yeah.” Peter confirmed. “Poor Matt.” He muttered, knowing he himself was responsible for every bruise marring the surface of the cop's skin, while Gabriel had likely just boiled his blood. He had never wanted to make Sylar pay more than he did in that moment, but no matter what part Matt had to play in Nathan's cover-up and the subsequent creation of Gabriel, he didn't deserve to be dragged into this and abused the way he had been: just a vessel to be used as seen fit by either party. And Peter was as guilty of that as Sylar.

  
  


Then the grip on his arm tightened so much it probably cut off his circulation. “What the hell were you thinking?!” Peter was roughly span around to be confronted by Gabriel's angry and hurt expression. “Why did you do that, back on the roof?! We had an agreement!”

  
  


“I...I just...” He trailed off, keeping his gaze firmly away from Matt. Truthfully, he had thought that any option would be better than Gabriel's plan. But now that he was actually standing over the human being he had been willing to sacrifice, he was shaken to his senses. And even if he _had_ successfully managed to brainwash Sylar into staying with Matt and leaving the city, it wouldn't have been permanent. It was only postponing the inevitable and further ruining Matt's life in the process. Peter was hardly unfamiliar with acting incredibly foolish when in love, but so far he had never been so close to considering such a horrific act. Now he felt shaken, sickened by himself and wearing down on all levels.

  
  


But yet... he couldn't quite void the justification that it still wouldn't be as bad as the alternative.

  
  


*

  
  


“...I just wanted to save you.” And with that, coupled by Peter's faulty lip pouting and trembling ever so slightly, how could Gabriel ever be angry at him? His heart broke along the old reliable cracks, and he almost wished that Peter would fight and defend himself so that he didn't feel so raw casting aside his effort.

  
  


Dislocating his own thumb to escape the handcuffs and cracking it back into place hadn't been the hardest part of his escape from the rooftop. It had been betraying Peter's gesture, practically throwing it back into his face as if it meant nothing. That wasn't the truth of it at all, and although he was certain that Peter knew that, he couldn't help but feel _mean_ _f_ or surrendering himself for someone else.

  
  


He knew they had only precious minutes before the beast awoke and ravaged everything in sight. And Gabriel hadn't changed his mind.

  
  


He hoped that, after, Peter wouldn't hate him too much for it.

  
  


*

  
  


Everything ached all at once: his old bruises, his old gunshot wounds and now every pore on his skin leaked fire. Goddamned Elle. It shouldn't really be a surprise that she had come back to hurt him yet again, even if it was just her stolen electrokinesis and not the lying psycho bitch herself.

  
  


“He's up...”

  
  


Movement sounded nearby and slowly, still groggy from the electrotherapy, Sylar regained full awareness of his whereabouts. He was still at the top of the staircase in the library, slouched against the wall and blocked in by two fuzzy figures towering above him. All the hostages were gone, and so Sylar had lost his bargaining chip. All he had now was his crippled intelligence and the loose grip he still held on Matt's over-exerted ability. Great.

  
  


“Sylar? Can you hear me?”

  
  


He grunted and felt the same awful jolt (he had experienced it too often now to have any excuse, but it hit all the same) when it wasn't his own voice that left his mouth. “Pet...relli.” He blinked his eyes forcefully, clearing his vision until he could properly make out Peter and the other one, the imposter, standing with a ball of electricity crackling in the palm of his hand.

  
  


“Try anything and you get fried.” Peter stated, crossing his arms and throwing disdain down at him so harshly that it sizzled through Sylar's already sizzled skin, exciting his sense to antagonise.

  
  


“Can't I at least talk to you as myself instead of Parkman? No funny business, but trust me – you wouldn't want to be him for longer than you had to if you got the option.” He raised one eyebrow, hoping to charm his way into this one. Angry tendrils of the same ability as his poked at his head as Peter apparently checked out his motives, so Sylar let him in grudgingly, making sure he didn't stray too deep. Both his captors merely frowned harder, and Sylar happily took the lack of verbal response to mean 'yes'. So he channelled the tired ability into allowing both men to see him in his true form, catching and revelling in the look of shock and uncertainty that shook the other one – Gabriel.

  
  


“Ahh! It's _good_ to be me again! Well, almost...” He smirked, only half faking it due to the priceless expression on both men's faces: fury on Peter's, disbelief on Gabriel's. Although it was only an illusion and Parkman's body was still heavy and constricting around him, the freedom of expression had considerably brightened his mood. And now he was itching to play. “Ouch, that looks sore. Hope I didn't ruin your pretty face?” Sylar said silkily, eyeing Peter's busted lip and the blood drying down his chin. It was likely to form into a nasty bruise. Good.

  
  


Gabriel tensed visibly and the electricity sparked brighter in his hand. Possessive, too. So that was another similar trait that he shared with Sylar, he noted, amused. Although that was really the only amusing thing about the whole situation. Sylar was now only weaker and more hurt than ever in this mortal vessel, and another fight wasn't his main priority at the moment, but he had a nasty feeling that this interrogation was leading up to these two attempting to send him off to spend the rest of his days rotting inside someone else's head. And that was _not_ _g_ oing to go down well, even if Parkman would be left with plenty of electrical burns to match his many bruises and ailments.

  
  


*

  
  


“We just wanna talk.” Peter bit out, tensing every muscle on his body. Gabriel could feel the guy practically straining beside him, and only refrained from touching him because he suspected it would only incite more sarcasm from Sylar.

  
  


“Talk?” The killer repeated, then shook his head at the ridiculousness of the statement. “Boy do _you_ have a lot of talking to do, Peter. _When_ I get my body back you're gonna have to explain to Matty Sr. why you left him in this state. Twice. Some “good guy” you are...” Gabriel sent more force to the power heating his hand and Peter bared his teeth when Sylar continued smoothly on. If he was nervous there was no indication of it, and Gabriel shivered at the way the guy seemed to derive pleasure from saying such things. “Unless your plan is to keep me in here...? Then you can explain that part to him too: why you thought your life and the one of your... _dearest_ _G_ abe here were more important than his?” The killer sniggered. “Not that I can blame you, really. Or actually, tell it to his fatherless son. Because if you leave me here I'll never let Parkman back in control, he'd be as good as dead... except he would have to suffer through every single second that his life, just, passes him by...”

  
  


It was a sensation unlike any other, more strange than experiencing memories from multiple people and being able to shape-shift into anyone he touched: staring into his own face and being unable to recognise it, twisted and distorted by difficult years and too much power. This was the first time Gabriel had ever come into contact with the figure from his nightmares, and it was more chilling than he had imagined it would be. Until now he had naively pictured this bringer of destruction not to look like him, and after the news report Matt Parkman's face had provided itself as an avatar for Sylar in Gabriel's mind.

  
  


But now it was real, unavoidable – he really, truly _was_ a descendent of this person. It was deeply disturbing that the face he saw in the mirror each day could look so similar yet so different on someone else, and it terrified him along with his own voice casting a curse with such poisonous promise.

  
  


“That's _not_ gonna happen.” Peter spat, very much the wonderfully strong, golden anchor that Gabriel had always known he was. He'd never appreciated it quite as much as he did now.

  
  


*

  
  


“Well then you'd best just get it over with and kill good ol' tubs now, 'cause it's the only way to stop me.” Sylar spat, baring his teeth and glowering from under his prominent brow. “Or just face facts that it's over. Surely you know me well enough by now, Petrelli? I'm not just going to skip away into the horizon and disappear forever. I'm sorry, but your happy ending is standing in the way of mine.” He said darkly, glaring up from the ground with a look that sent venomous hatred hurtling through Peter.

  
  


“Isn't it always?!” He demanded gruffly, balling his hands into fists.

  
  


Here he was, shaking and only refraining from kicking in that face by telling himself it was Matt's, yet the psychopath who had single-handedly ripped his life apart merely chuckled and shook his head. “Don't flatter yourself, Peter.” Then with the eerie precision that he always possessed, Sylar's entire countenance flipped and he dropped his tone and hissed through thin lips. “Wouldn't you just love that? Paint yourself as the little “victim” who does no wrong if you want, but _I_ know better. I'm not “picking on you” - you and your family just have an unfortunate habit of repeatedly getting in my way. You and your brother take it upon yourselves to try to “stop me” when I'm going about my own business, or your sicko mother and father lie to me and tell me I have parents, brothers, a whole family! But all they want is to use me for their own means, just like everyone else! It's not my fault your lot are so fucked up, Peter, that's just the way it is.” He tipped his head slightly and lofted his great brows. “But a world with less Petrellis in it is certainly an improvement, if you ask me -”

  
  


“ _Go to hell!_ ” Peter shouted, hating the way his curse was twisted and disfigured back to him from the high walls and ceiling. By now he had lost count of the amount of punches he'd struck to Matt's face in response to Sylar but, really, one more wouldn't make that much of a difference...

  
  


*

  
  


“Stop!” Gabriel cried, jumping between the two men who looked ready to rip each other to shreds like rabid wolves. He pressed a hand to Peter's chest, holding him back before he could even make the lunge that anyone could see coming a mile off, and held the other in front of Sylar with electricity fizzling a safe distance from the guy's range of reach. Breathing heavily, he curled his fingers into Peter's t-shirt for strength, feeling his heart racing underhand. Then turned to look into Sylar's smug face, apparently happy with the rise he had incited. The expression chilled Gabriel to the bone and he was almost consumed whole by those pitiless coals: eyes so similar to his own yet so unrecognisable. “Stop it. That's not why we're here.”

  
  


“... _Gabriel!_ ” Peter breathed, pleading with him, shaking his head furiously. He clung to Gabriel's hand and squeezed his fingers, all the recent anger missing from his voice now. The single word broke even more goosebumps over the back of Gabriel's neck, and he reaffirmed his hold on Peter because Sylar couldn't see past him.

  
  


“We're here to get this over with. And I'm ready now.”

  
  


*

  
  


“Oh good, now that _you're_ ready...” Sylar chimed, irritated by this “noble” action even though it was exactly what he had fought and struggled to get. Of course this person who does everything perfectly (even living as Sylar, apparently, he could do no wrong) would go and be a lil' hero about meeting his end: selfless, caring, a beloved martyr, doing it for the greater good, blah blah blah. Meanwhile Sylar would forever be painted the villain for daring to be upset after he was ripped unwillingly from his body and paraded around as someone else while his whole life was hijacked and he was left to rot in the head of a fat, selfish cop?! There would be plenty of time to dwell on that once he was finally free from the confines of Matt Parkman however, so he refrained from wallowing over it now.

  
  


Trying not to show just _how_ much he yearned for his goal, he smoothed back all the pesky emotions that would distract him and reached out a steady hand. Blood pumping rapidly and stomach compressing in anticipation, he waited with impressive patience until Gabriel extinguished the electrical arcs from his palm and reached back... Then stopped at the last second. “But you have to promise not to hurt Peter or anyone he cares about again.”

  
  


A little intake of breath came from the empath's direction, and Sylar actually rolled his eyes this time. Oh yeah, super-Gabriel was really stacking up the points here. Even though Sylar knew that making a promise now would be irrelevant later, right then he was so desperate that he would have agreed to just about anything. “Promise. Like I said, I don't intend to hunt you down, Petrelli. But next time our paths cross I won't touch a hair on your glorious little head.” He leant sideways to send a condescending look Peter's way, catching sight of him around Gabriel's torso. Then was startled to see the pair's hands intertwined over Peter's heart, the action deliberately hidden from him until now.

  
  


His self-assured smile flickered and threatened to fade. Wait. They'd been being all lovey-dovey while Sylar had been over here grovelling like an ignoramus to get his life back?! Firstly he was insulted, repulsed, on the verge of spitting at them to 'get a room'; then he was wracked with envy, jealous that _his_ body was allowed to kiss on top of bridges at sunset and hold hands in public but only when someone else was inside it.

  
  


Quickly he composed himself, hiding yet another brief glimpse of the tornado whirling underneath this calm mask he wore. “What can I say?” He shrugged heavy, aching shoulders nonchalantly. “If we weren't all competing for the same thing here, I wouldn't go out of my way to hurt you. But we are, and there's nothing we can do about that now. Maybe choose your sides more carefully in future?” He directed the last part solely at Peter, as there would be no “future” for the other one if he had a say in it.

  
  


Peter started as if to get at Sylar, then Gabriel's fingers tightened around Peter's and Sylar's stomach twisted in response. The empath struggled pitifully for a few seconds before Gabriel seemed to settle him, then, _finally,_ the taller man bent to bring his fingers to Sylar's... before he was hauled away yet again. Goddamn it! Sylar was definitely losing his patience now. He resisted the urge to punch the marble and instead just absorbed every interaction with his meticulous attention to detail. The couple launched into a heated, whispered debate before him, a “lovers squabble” Sylar thought icily, as he was left on the ground and just expected to wait for them to finish. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but Parkman really was rather worse for wear and Sylar opted to keep what little strength he had for the chance that he might need it later.

  
  


And so he just waited, arm still outstretched and fingers wiggling expectantly. He wasn't even sure why he was granting them this age to bicker. The threat of electrical punishment for using mind-control was gone now and so he could easily hurry things along if he so chose. But for some unexplainable reason, he didn't choose. Not even when the smouldering little Petrelli dragged Gabriel back further out of earshot, and they stood clinging to each other as Peter shook his head and pleaded with goo-goo eyes so sickening that Sylar scoffed and averted his attention... but not for too long.

  
  


*

  
  


“You weren't even gonna say _goodb_... I mean, without even a...?!” Peter hissed, unable to actually say the word aloud. He was sure he wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't just seen it with his own two eyes.

  
  


“I told you – I thought we already had. I assumed you wouldn't want to again in front of him.” Gabriel spoke softly, but every note that rumbled from his chest strangled Peter a little bit more. Fierce and indignant, he grasped Gabriel's sides and squeezed his ribs, getting as much of the guy as he could possibly hold in two hands.

  
  


“How could you _think_ that...? You were gonna take his hand and you didn't even give me any warning! How the hell d'you think I would've felt if the next time you'd turned around it had been _him_ in there instead of you?!” He was winding tighter and tighter, coiled like a spring and verging dangerously on bursting.

  
  


Gentle, pink fingers stroked Peter's face and groomed his hair, tucking it out of his eyes repeatedly the way that Gabriel always liked to do, and the empath suddenly couldn't breathe. He was still insulted, enraged at the guy for what he had almost done, but he was buckling. “I just can't think of a better way to say goodbye than we did back at the apartment.” Gabriel thrummed through barely moving lips.

  
  


The touches to his face unlocked the vault within Peter, letting free the wonderful memories and emotions that he had tried so hard to pack away in hopes of making this easier. They flowed over him now, whittling him down until all his armour dissolved and he was nothing but a huge, overflowing mess of so many feelings all at once, and he didn't know how to even express a word of it. This was even worse than when he'd found out Nathan was dead – because this time he was actually _here_ and aware of it in the moment, yet there was _still_ nothing he could do to stop it from happening.

  
  


He tried to reply, would have physically ripped his throat open with his fingernails in order to get his voice out for his final words if he had to, but if he let go of this person he would surely crumple and simply cease to be. It was only when Gabriel's thumbs rubbed his cheeks and wiped under his eyes that Peter became aware that his tears had finally spilled over for the first time since the funeral: acidic, restrained and painful.

  
  


*

  
  


“Maybe we don't have to actually say the “g” word?” Gabriel whispered, scarred by the enraged frown marring Peter's face and the water dewing along his eyelashes then overflowing in amazingly few, silent tears. He watched the man's skin blush, saw the pressure build behind his eyes and nose and mourned for the well-being of that already burst and bleeding lip caught so harshly between Peter's teeth. “'Cause maybe this isn't the end?” Gabriel crooned, cradling the face he loved more than any other in the world in both hands. If he didn't already believe in miracles (such as this most wondrous one before him), he would have been converted due to the way he somehow managed to stay so calm right then. The logic was beyond him – this genius who knew how things worked – but he wouldn't complain about his lack of hysteria when it offered him such clarity in these pivotal seconds.

  
  


“I love you Peter. So much.” His throaty sigh was soft enough that it wouldn't travel to their observer. “Whatever happens, please don't forget that.”

  
  


Then Peter drew his first breath in a long time, struggling to reach his lungs. His voice was dull and thick, mutilated by distress. “L-love you too.” He gasped, sniffed then gasped again, wiping his nose with his sleeve and trying to pull himself together while his whole body shook with rage and grief.

  
  


Gabriel thanked that miracle once again and, despite their audience, pulled Peter forward and felt the little body curl limply against his chest. He didn't care that they were not ten metres from the infamous serial killer who was going to take it all away from them any second now, for this wasn't about anyone else but the two of them. Gabriel wrapped Peter in a steady, sturdy arm to counteract his tremors while the other hand never once strayed from his face. “Are you scared?” He asked quietly.

  
  


“Yeah.” Peter croaked, a raspy whisper that make the watchmaker's chin threaten to tremble.

  
  


“So am I.” He whispered back, pulling back so the tip of his nose brushed Peter's. “But we shouldn't be. I'll see you on the other side... either way.” He traced a finger down the man's cheek to his jaw. Chest to chest, heart to heart, tears transferred from the smaller man's cheeks to Gabriel's as he leant in and stilled burning, quivering lips with his own.

  
  


*

  
  


This was a level of control that Sylar had never quite experienced before: he had none. He had been unable to drag his gaze away from the couple, scrutinising them with a straight face and the type of precision he called upon when feasting his eyes on an intriguing watch or brain, and his attention had only intensified since Peter had started welling up with tears of anger and heartbreak. It was unlike anything he had ever seen: repulsive, entrancing, horrifically weak yet one of the purest things Sylar had witnessed in his life. He hated people crying around him, especially this man who should be sturdy and resilient and always a reliable choice to push and prod and toy with, who would always come back for more. But it was just so... fascinating to watch the way the little man interacted with the person who could have almost been _him_. He was jealous, too, of course – not even for Peter, just of what the pair undoubtedly had between them.

  
  


He had managed to observe rather subtly (not that the other two even seemed to remember he existed at all), but when Sylar watched someone who looked so very much like himself cup Peter Petrelli's face and kiss him, he couldn't help but narrow his eyes in shock as his insides deteriorated. That was himself! Making out with _that_ man of all men, right in front of him! In real life too, not just some memory that had haunted him ever since he'd stumbled across it when helping himself through Peter's mind back in LA, and right now he didn't know how to handle it. He should have been nauseated and defensive of his body being used for such obscene behaviour (the extent of which he could only imagine) but it was more due to a sense of longing regret over anything else that he let it continue. Not for Peter or Gabriel, but for himself. For all he knew that could be the last loving contact his body would experience in a _long_ time.

  
  


Irregular tears continued to roll down the little man's cheeks as they kissed and the other one – _not_ Sylar – wiped them away patiently, tenderly, until Sylar couldn't take it any longer! He growled and climbed to his feet a little shakily, but overall he was in better shape than he had initially thought. “Hey! I intend on having lips left to go back you, y'know!” Impatient to get back to business (and not even the tiniest bit guilty!), he snapped his fingers to roughly break it up.

  
  


The embrace ended reluctantly and both men avoided Sylar's eyes – but they should have been grateful to have had any of it at all, he thought bitterly in response to the unspoken hatred thrown his way. He could have skipped all this sap and cut straight to the prize, and it was only due to his leniency that they had even been allowed to have a tearful farewell in the first place! Peter turned away to scrub at his face, Gabriel stood guard by him, and Sylar really tried not to hate the guy too much for doing everything like a fucking knight in shining armour. He was a fragment of himself, after all, but that also annoyingly meant Sylar had more to live up to in terms of “betterness” when he got his body back.

  
  


His hackles rose and his shoulders stiffened, but he didn't dare show more than that or they would _know_. “You done now? Is that goodbye enough?” He asked sarcastically, cocking his eyebrows and limping to the banister, once again overcome with nerves and excitement that he worked steadily to hide from prying eyes. _This was it!_ What he'd been wishing and fighting for every second he had spent in this current state of being!

  
  


*

  
  


But Gabriel was hauled back yet again before he could even take a step towards Sylar. His heart hitched in his throat and it tore at him to deny his lover's mutilated distress. “Peter -”

  
  


“Don't do it! Please!” Peter hissed, right up in Gabriel's face, eyes mad with vigour. He was whispering, possessed by the last wisps of hope and apparently far beyond the realm of caring if the third pair of eyes and ears were in range. His words were frantic, his voice hoarse and low, and the worst part about it was how much Gabriel wanted to relent. “ _Please_ , _please_ , don't do it, don't do it, please! We'll be alright, we'll worry about the rest of it later... just don't _d_ _ie_ for me, I want you to _stay_! Please!”

  
  


Sylar's observant eyes seared straight through Gabriel's back, but they weren't enough to stop the watchmaker from touching his fingertips to the heated, wet skin of Peter's cheek. “We've been over this...”

  
  


The empath's forehead dimpled deeper into a frown, and he shrugged out of Gabriel's sympathetic petting, growling through gritted teeth. “I don't care about later – I don't! I care about _you!_ ”

  
  


“I'm only doing what's best for you, Peter.” Gabriel crooned, uselessly attempting to block Sylar's view and range of hearing with only a turned back.

  
  


“Don't _I_ have a say in that?! Why d' _you_ get to decide what's best for me...?!”

  
  


Gabriel's eyes roamed over every inch of pain and desperate pleading carved into Peter's handsome face, distorting him, twisting him into a stomach-churning image of heartbreak. And Gabriel was to blame. No matter how much he knew it needed to be done, that expression wrecked him from the inside out. He wished it didn't have to be this way. He wished that Sylar didn't have to be snooping on this most intimate of moments. But that's all he could do: wish.

  
  


He extended a hand again, and this time Peter didn't push out of his touch. Instead he stood steady, pleading with large, tragic eyes and allowed Gabriel to stroke the pad of his thumb over his damaged, trembling lip. “Because I love you.”

  
  


*

  
  


Like a renewed shock of electric volts to the system, Sylar flinched at hearing those words. Just the way they had been stated in that way: so blatantly, so shamelessly! It stung to be slapped in the face by such bare-faced devotion, but the rebounds of such an outside source only served to increase his restlessness. He wasn't about to sit here any longer as the pathetic third wheel – alone, unloved and hated for only wanting to reunite with his god-given body as if he were unreasonable for wanting it back!

  
  


He cleared his throat impatiently, fingering the handle of his mind-coercion ability just in case, and watched the two figures before him tense. Then Gabriel whispered so quietly that a lesser person than Sylar wouldn't have heard him. “I'm sorry.”

  
  


Finally the imposter in Sylar's place pried himself from his beloved's side, took a step forward and reached one of Sylar's own hands towards him. At fucking last!

  
  


*

  
  


...But Peter couldn't do this. Despite everything Gabriel had said, the truth in the man's argument and the fact that he _knew_ _t_ here was no easy way out, Peter Petrelli launched right into another battle to preserve someone else.

  
  


“ _No!_ ”

  
  


Sylar's mental guard was still standing, and as he couldn't think of anything better do to... driven by nothing more than adrenaline and love, on a split-second decision his body flared into action and he bowled to the side. He tackled Gabriel, sending the guy tumbling painfully to the ground, disorientated and groggy. Then, vision still blurry and eyes still streaming, Peter lunged at Sylar and grabbed the front of his shirt with two hands, dragging him back with everything he had. He didn't even know what he was doing – he had no plan! – all he had were two fists of blazing passion and a heart that was bleeding over and drenching every inch of him red.

  
  


*

  
  


Taken off guard, Sylar struggled with Peter around the balcony in a blind rage, only aware of his pulse hammering and even more pain hitting him sporadically in dull _thwacks._ Okay, he hadn't been expecting that. In the blur of the fight it wasn't too difficult to prioritize his injuries, and they wouldn't stop him giving as good as he got, if not better. Enraged that his victory had been removed from his grasp for the countless time that night, he fought brutally, using Parkman's bulk and mass to his advantage.

  
  


“ _Don't test me Petrelli!_ ” He licked the words out venomously, sending a fist into the other man's gut and receiving an iron blow to the sternum in return. Sylar mewled furiously – there was no way he would let this little Petrelli spawn best him again! Not in a fight, and not in his purpose! And after he had been so tolerating of the guy too! He had meant his promise when he'd made it, he hadn't planned to hurt Peter... but then the stupid little man had gone and signed himself away, and Sylar was _not. Going to lose. This time._

  
  


It took a surprisingly short time before he gained the upper hand and cemented his victory by stabbing his elbow into Peter's chest. A telltale _crack!_ _rang out,_ winding Peter and rendering him open to further attack. The empath couldn't even scream properly due to what Sylar suspected was a rib digging into a lung. Wasting no time, the seasoned killer grabbed the seasoned healer's convulsing throat as the man choked and gasped for air, tightening his grip and shoving him back into the banister mercilessly. Bent backwards across the stone and held in place by the cop's larger frame, the stupid little hero was trapped and helpless. And he had no one to blame but himself.

  
  


“It didn't have to be this way, Peter.” Sylar spat into his ear and squeezed tighter. No stranger to strangulation, he knew the exact pressure and points to manipulate in order to kill, and he danced dangerously close to them now. “You should've just stood back and stayed out of it. It's your own fault... you just _had_ to be the hero, didn't you?”

 

Sylar actually laughed at that, humourless, pained wheezes that shook the firm body pinned beneath his chest. Who would've thought that after _everything_ he'd been through with this guy... this was to be their finale? Honestly, he was a little disappointed that Peter hadn't put up more of a fight, but Sylar had long known that love did strange and stupid things to people.

  
  


It was a shame really: rarely had Sylar connected with anyone else in his life more than this person writhing in his grip (be that an ugly and complicated connection for one or both parties) but he wasn't going to endanger his future just for Peter out of a sense of duty due to their shared past. He didn't have a choice: this man would never stop coming after him if he let him live, that was a given.

  
  


Penetrating eyes scoured over the dying man: hair a mess and stuck to the tear tracks staining his pink and glistening face, eyes wide and slowly losing focus, and mouth open and as crooked as ever as he tried and failed to draw breath. He could do nothing but wait for the end to take him, and it was maybe one of the strangest things Sylar had witnessed all night – seeing this particular guy give in like that without a fight. The strength that he had used to admire had been sapped out of ever-endurable Peter it seemed, and a tiny flicker of remorse made Sylar re-think his strategy.

  
  


This was Peter Petrelli after all... he deserved a more dignified death than this. Something more... fitting, perhaps? ...More true to his being? Really it was out of respect, a respect that he would never admit aloud, that he hoisted Peter into the air by his throat while the wounded man could do nothing but be manhandled as if he were no more than a broken rag doll...

  
  


*

  
  


Weakly, dazed and suffocating, Peter pawed harmlessly at the hand cutting off his air supply and holding all his bodyweight. His chest felt like it was searing open, stabbing inwards on itself and preventing him from moving, let alone from trying to breathe past the deadly grasp on his throat.

  
  


As his brain starved of oxygen, all he was properly aware of was the face looming below his: as terrifying and emotionless now as it had been the time they had been in an almost identical situation years ago in a trashed, dark apartment. He didn't want it to be the last thing he saw, not then and not now, and as his vision began popping and blurring around the edges, he swivelled his gaze towards the only image he wanted to take with him into the unknown.

  
  


*

  
  


Finally Gabriel's regeneration kicked in, and he slowly became aware of where he was. He didn't know how long it had been, but he wouldn't have guessed more than half a minute. The marble was cold beneath him, and he pushed himself into a sitting position before finally recalling the events leading up to his strange location.

  
  


Terrified, he came to his senses and looked around wildly just in time to lock eyes with Peter as the grim reaper dangled his entire body over the side of the balcony. Gabriel didn't even have time to muster his voice, let alone any abilities, before the lids slid closed over those sorrowful, hazel eyes, the hold around his throat was released and the man Gabriel loved seemed to hover all by himself, flying as elegantly as he always did... and then he fell.

  
  


Everything went silent. Pulsing in the absence of sound. Gabriel's body shut down, and he didn't even draw breath.

  
  


Despite not being able to control time and space, he was sure that the world was frozen while his usually so adept mind refused to process what had just happened. He must have hallucinated, maybe he'd hit his head too hard...? It couldn't be true, because Peter hadn't just dropped from a seventh story staircase! He _hadn't_...!

  
  


All at once everything came rushing back with the sickening _thud_ of a body hitting stone, and Gabriel knew he would have died right then if he wasn't cursed with immortality. He blanched, losing all control over himself and his actions, dazed, traumatized, unable to believe it...

  
  


Then suddenly he was on his feet, although he had no memory of getting there, and then he was charging at Sylar like a raging bull, blind and stupid and completely forgetting about his stash of abilities and that any single one of them would have been a better option than this... He saw a face like his own turn when he roared, a hair-raising sound that reverberated back tenfold, saw a mouth like his own twist up at the ends, and a hand like his own extend to await the very thing it wanted handing itself over so easily...

  
  


All it took, after all, was one touch. And then everything went dark.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update! Don't forget to check out the next chapter ^.^ I hope you enjoyed this one (and that you don't hate me too much for what just happened DX), and as always, please feel free to let me know what you think X)
> 
> Also,
> 
> MARVEL'S JESSICA JONES SPOILER BELOW, DON'T READ IF YOU HAVEN'T WATCHED!  
> I know that Kilgrave did a similar "threaten to kill a group of people with mind control" thing, but I had this idea planned before I saw that show dammit! Yeah, it's a little annoying, but I'm not going to change my fic because of it :) I hope it doesn't bother any of you too much, and that you still enjoyed the chapter ^.^


	17. What You've Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylar allows the words to trickle off his tongue as sweetly as nectar... “Please. Gabriel Gray is Dead.”

For a moment Sylar wasn't sure if it had worked. Then something drew him upwards like a silver cord around his navel and suddenly he was weightless, dizzy, shaken out of coherence and existing only out of sheer force of will. And then everything combusted around him, solid, real and painfully overdue, and he felt himself be anchored firmly back where he belonged.

  
  


It was _magnificent!_ He took his first real breath in months, filling his lungs – _his_ lungs! - with the magical substance of air and brimmed with delirious satisfaction. Everything set to work around him: he could almost visualise his soul expanding in all directions right to the outlines of his body, a perfect fit with no room for anyone or anything else besides him! Breathing heavily from the exertion, he took pleasure in looking down his flat torso and actually _seeing_ his toes, examining his own hands, flexing his fingers and revelling in the precision of being in a body that truly belonged to him. It was so _light!_ So _free!_ Not to mention perfectly healthy – not so much as a hangnail bothered him in comparison to the battered and bruised mess of the body he had just vacated. He chuckled (his own voice! At last!), amused by his well-timed escape and more than happy to leave Parkman to suffer through his ailments all alone. Speaking of which...

  
  


“S-Sylar...?” He turned to see the cop weakly bracing himself against the banister and looking deliciously terrified, exhausted and haunted by what had just happened. Sylar cocked his head and prowled a few light steps in his direction with his one motivation clearly telegraphed on every inch of his face. Parkman extended a hand and turned on his false-calm tactic that Sylar had seen him use too many times by now. He would thoroughly enjoy watching the man's last grasp at hope flicker and die... “Gabriel? If you're in there... d-don't do this. Alright? You don't have to do this – you can stop him!” He stammered foolishly, and Sylar fully laughed, shaking his head and allowing his next words to trickle off his tongue as sweetly as nectar.

  
  


“Please. Gabriel Gray is Dead.” He dipped his head in mock pity. But only briefly. “Looks like you'll just have to settle for lil' old me instead...” He hummed gleefully, and just to prove his point he ruffled his raven hair and raked a hand through it, messing up the stupid parting and slicking it back the way _h_ _e_ liked it to be. Then he ripped the navy cardigan off his torso, sending the buttons pinging to the floor, and hauled up the sleeves of the shirt underneath. It was pleasantly satisfying to vandalise the appearance that _Gabriel_ had created, and Sylar deliberately stomped on every last trace of him.

  
  


Parkman swallowed harshly and his sweaty face grew more blotchy even as Sylar watched, allowing the _glorious_ undertones of his precious abilities to course through him for the first time in far too long... oh, how he had missed them! Partly for show and partly for practice, he sparked electricity from his fingertips experimentally – perfect: he wasn't even a little rusty. In fact, his powers were actually building into a definite pressure, just _itching_ to be used. Now, Sylar mused, what to do first with all this regained freedom and power...?

  
  


The most obvious answer was revenge. With lightening fast reflexes he stabbed a hand at Parkman, knocking the guy back across the balcony and slamming him off the wall with only a wave of two fingers. Oh yes... he was home. The tall man glided towards the one crumpled on the ground, feeling power ripple through him tantalisingly, spurning him on...

  
  


The winded cop gasped and groaned over his new injuries, then Sylar felt the guy's insulting attempt to mind-control him prodding pathetically at his temple. He was far too weak to manage anything worthwhile but just out of spite, Sylar flicked another bout of telekinesis and banged Parkman's head back against the wall with just enough force to send him reeling (as punishment, but also in case he dared try to do it again).

  
  


“P-please – Sylar – Janice...”

  
  


Sylar's lip curled in disdain as he looked down his nose at the man responsible for the last months of endless hell and torture. With another twitch of his hand he held the guy in place with his trusty ability, squeezing him too tightly on purpose. “You didn't really think I was going to just let you dance away home to the misses and kid, did you? Not after everything you did to me? You're lucky I have to kill you first to get your ability, or I'd use it to rip your soul from your body and see how much _you_ like it!” The other man's eyes bulged and a grin spread slowly over Sylar's face as he raised his forefinger and started to slice across the guy's forehead with the invisible blade of telekinesis. Hmm... vengeance had never felt this good.

  
  


Then his victim grunted in pain, a meek sound that was in no way similar to the blood-curdling scream that bounced around Sylar's mind right then, but all the same brought it crashing back to him. Like cracks in a mirror – everything broke, the present shattered into a thousand pieces and Sylar couldn't escape the old memory of Peter Petrelli pinned to the wall and howling in agony as this very same finger attempted to cut his head open...

  
  


Suddenly it was as if a lead weight had been dropped onto Sylar's chest and he recoiled, flinching in on himself and stumbling backwards from the action he had just been about to commit. He forgot all about Parkman and was pulled further and further under confusion and pain and now that he had indirectly tapped into this vein he couldn't have shut it off even if he'd known how to. Photographic images blurred past his mind's eye, each one dousing more strange and conflicting emotions over him until he was overwhelmed and could do nothing but merely try to survive as he was pushed and pulled every which way by the strength of this unrelenting tide.

  
  


He remembered chasing a stupid little man through a Texan high school and walking away from his mangled, dead corpse; he remembered that man, but wonderful and trustworthy this time, promising to help him and blushing under praise and gratitude as they sat side by side in an empty apartment; he remembered trying to choke the life out of that same person in the shadow of a grand staircase sculpture; he remembered laughing with him for hours until they both made themselves ill from eating too much candy; he remembered the exasperation and anger fuelling him on as he brutally fought the guy in the Stanton Hotel suite; he remembered the fear and excitement crippling his heart as he'd taken the leap and initiated their first kiss atop the Brooklyn Bridge; he remembered the rage he'd felt towards the man back in Parkman's house, how close he had come to ending the little brat once and for all; then cradling his broken, beautiful body afterwards, washing away his fear and sorrow and then holding him, _l_ _oving_ him, all through the night to repair the damage that _he_ , the monster itself, had caused in the first place...

  
  


Sylar gasped and pressed a hand to his spinning head, dazed and unsure of where he was. He could feel that he was standing yet all he could see was Peter lying beneath him that first time, unable to quite hide his nerves and looking up with such open, trusting, shining eyes as he surrendered his heart and body so intimately in the confines of soft, warm bedsheets...

  
  


Heaving for breath, Sylar grasped unseeingly for the marble banister to keep himself standing. He retched and shuddered while his body convulsed, tortured by such a searing pain and agony that he only _now_ identified as heartbreak. Love. Loss. Loss and love, for there was no escaping it: Sylar was undeniably, unfathomably, in love with Peter Petrelli.

  
  


He knew he had despised the man just seconds ago, could even still feel the waves of such a feeling receding, and it had been this hatred that had kept one part of him afloat through recent history. He had drawn strength from it, determination, and having something to plot for this past week had damn near saved him. But now it didn't mean anything. Finally, Sylar's suffering spilled out of him and he shook, lost in memories of drawing gently down the line of Peter's spine with his fingers in a quiet, cosy morning hour, still not quite familiar with the sensation of touching someone else's bare skin in this way, and unable to believe he could ever be so lucky...

  
  


*

  
  


Motherfucker! Finally Matt managed to regain his footing, much to the complaint of his protesting limbs and joints. He wiped his stinging forehead with his sleeve, attempting to stem the blood from the half inch wide incision to his skin. Breathing hurriedly, adrenaline still flowing through his body, he would have loved nothing more than to run at the damned man who had tormented him for far too long, and go about beating the shit out of him now that his back was turned. But in his current sore and damaged state Matt knew if he tried, he'd probably just end up in the same situation as Peter. He shivered as he re-lived his own arms lifting the man and casting him down the stairwell while being unable to intervene. Peter didn't deserve that, and Matt hoped to learn from that mistake, so instead warmed up his ability in order to mentally ruin Sylar if he couldn't do so physically.

  
  


But then, maybe that job had already been done for him. He stared at Sylar's hunched and trembling form, wracking with what were unmistakeably sobs. He was _crying?!_...And, conveniently, very distracted. This would have been the perfect time to make a run for it, but Matt couldn't help himself – the opportunity was just too perfect to ignore! Sylar had been poking around in _his_ head for weeks, making fun of his insecurities and casting up his mistakes, so really it was only fair that Matt returned the favour...

  
  


He forced his way into Sylar's surprisingly pliable mind, bracing himself for plots and evil schemes and thoughts of death and murder and brains. But instead he dived face-first right into an inferno of self-loathing and torture unlike any Matt had ever experienced himself. There was far too much information swirling around to interpret, so he settled for merely pacing the floor of this mind and watching the mess churn and simmer and unfold around him. He saw snippets of Sylar's life... no, no, no, _Gabriel's_ life... he caught countless clips of Peter as if the watchmaker had done nothing but stare wondrously at the guy through his short time upon this earth, and Matt couldn't possibly ignore the pure, raw emotions accompanying the memories. It wasn't a surprise (after all he _had_ witnessed the – apparent – couple's goodbye embrace), but suddenly he felt uncomfortable in here. This wasn't the type of thing he wanted to see and couldn't even help him in his feud against Sylar.

  
  


Then far too many, far too private, moments flashed up before him and he cringed. He did _not_ need to intrude on such intimate scenes, he felt bad enough for the two fallen men as it was. So with great effort Matt disentangled himself from the maze of thorns that was the mind of a deranged, conflicted serial-killer and his lost alter ego, and fell back into awareness having uncovered nothing of use as leverage.

  
  


At least from what he had gathered Sylar really didn't seem to want to kill him anymore – presently, anyway. As much as he resented leaving without any form of payback, he had more than enough experience getting himself into bad situations of late and didn't fancy launching into another one just yet.

  
  


So embarrassed, frustrated and unsatisfied, Matt Parkman decided to do the smart thing for once and get out of here while he still could, leaving his antagonist alone with the corpse of the man he had both loved and killed. Matt limped back through to the reading rooms in search of an exit that wouldn't cross paths with where Peter had fallen, grumbling over how much time he'd have to waste manipulating minds to get himself out of this whole “abductor” mess.

  
  


*

  
  


Now alone in this great, empty chamber, Sylar continued to choke and sob uncontrollably all over himself. Tears burned his eyes and seared his cheeks as the two contrasting parts of him were sewn back together along the seams, merging and morphing like black and white becoming grey. All the pieces came together inside him to form one solid, combined bundle. It hurt, more than any physical torture he had ever experienced (which was saying something) and he tensed up and suffered through it badly, wishing he could zone out and wait for it all to just hurry the fuck up and be over – but still it kept on going. Turning everything inward and crushing him with everything he had ever seen, ever felt, ever done.

  
  


The murderous past of Sylar oozed like a toxin that he couldn't resist or ignore. It wasn't like he just suddenly saw the light and couldn't believe he had ever done such things – no, he could still remember and understand exactly why he had, but it was only now in hindsight through this altered perspective that he could see past his initial angle of perception and question himself.

  
  


From the other side, it was awful re-living the past week and all the terror and dread he had harboured for this unstoppable killer who was hunting him down... after all, what could he possibly do to get past the fact that he had been mortally afraid of himself?! And for good reason! He was then treated to a painful rendition of the events here in the library: being handcuffed to the roof and breaking his own hand in order to stop the other him from doing any more damage; feeling such horror at seeing the beast's true face mirror his own; watching the couple's tearful farewell from afar and envying it, then witnessing it word for word, touch for touch, all over again. Then, worse than ever, he was forced to watch the one thing he treasured most in this entire world disappear. At the hand of his worst enemy... himself.

  
  


Just when he was absolutely certain he couldn't withstand another second of this punishment it all stopped. He was left quivering all over, hollow and still stinging from the freshness of it all. It was almost like the outer layer of his skin had been flayed off, revealing the new, still raw person beneath and exposing him to the world for the first time.

  
  


The sound of crying was loud in the otherwise deadly silence, his own crying, and it taunted him. For a moment he was so spent that he almost forgot why he was mourning in the first place... and then suddenly he couldn't escape it. Which destroyed him most of all.

  
  


Peter.

  
  


*

  
  


It didn't hurt at all. He knew that should probably be a cause for concern, but really he was grateful for it. Everything was fading, slipping from his grasp, and he couldn't even feel his heart beating. Maybe he didn't need one? After all he was nothing... nothing at all but a vague awareness that something had gone wrong earlier, and there was something he was supposed to do... but he couldn't remember what it had been, or even who he was in that moment.

  
  


“... _Peter_...!”

  
  


A faint sound pierced the cotton wool over his ears and a little bit of reality leaked back into him. Oh yeah: Peter. That's who he was... who he used to be...

  
  


Then he was aware of a shadow falling from above, growing larger and larger as it approached with entrancing grace. It looked almost like it was flying down to greet him instead of plummeting like he had. He wanted to reach out to the flying shadow but found that he couldn't, so just waited until the shape landed by him. Slowly it came into focus and he remembered something else... he _knew_ that face... he _loved_ that face... If only he could move and touch it one last time...

  
  


*

  
  


“ _Oh_... _!_ Oh, Peter... _I'm so sorry_...” Sylar gagged the words out, sickened more by his actions than the gruesome sight before him that he couldn't really make sense of. Peter, this beautiful, strong man, sprawled backwards over the bottom of a staircase: his body twisted inconceivably, his head back, face almost serene while blood trickled from his mouth, arms splayed out to each side, most definitely broken, and both legs bent in the wrong places. Dark, thick blood seeped out around him, already too much of it spilled, and dripped down the steps like a sickly red waterfall. Instead of falling the full seven stories to the ground, he had landed on the last few steps of the third story staircase, but really it was remarkable that he was still breathing at all – as shallow and infrequent as the rise of his chest was.

  
  


Sylar dropped to his knees on the landing, ignoring the hot blood soaking through his jeans, and gently cradled his hands beneath Peter's wet and sticky head, raising it just slightly from the bottom step. His vision was still obscured with tears but they didn't soften the impact of seeing his enemy, his best friend, lying here like this and knowing that _he_ had done this to him deliberately. “I'm so sorry! I'm sorry, please forgive me!” He croaked, uncaring that weakness was literally leaking from him for all to see.

  
  


“G...briel?” Peter mumbled, the tiniest puff of air, and Sylar's entire face crumpled more. He stuttered through a painful breath and tried, for Peter's benefit, to hide his alarm the way he normally could. But that skill was beyond him right now. “..briel...?”

  
  


The name twisted a knife in his gut, for he still wasn't quite certain who he was and who he wasn't, but he was pretty sure that he couldn't go by “Gabriel” anymore. He was tainted, ruined now and that name, the reminder of what he'd been forced to give up by his own actions, only rubbed salt into the wound. He didn't deserve that mantle – not after everything he'd done. He deserved to be labelled by the name that was synonymous with murder and brutality, so that people would know what a monster he was right from the beginning... However, for Peter he forced his lips to twitch into the barest hint of a smile and nodded.

  
  


“Yeah.” He half-lied, and Peter seemed to relax a little at the fake confirmation. Like he was ready to go now. Hastily, Sylar removed a hand from Peter's blood-stained hair and lifted one of the man's horrifically loose wrists, letting his hand sit slack atop his own. “Take regeneration.” He commanded, trying to sound matter-of-fact and like it really was that easy. But Peter's red, slippery fingers just hung limply over Gabriel's, unmoving.

  
  


“Can't... m...ove.” The broken man grunted, half-open eyelids fluttering and lips barely moving. A hook caught inside Sylar's ribcage: it shouldn't have been a surprise to learn that Peter's back was likely broken, rendering him paralysed. But still he refused to accept it.

  
  


“It's okay, your hand is in mine. Just use the ability and it'll work.” He said confidently, impressively stringing a whole sentence together despite the tears that were drowning him. Little droplets of grief continued to splash into the pool of blood that was still spreading from Peter's head and body, continued to patter over his ghostly white face.

  
  


“...M'sorr...y...” Peter whispered, and the weakness of his voice was worse than anything else yet. It was fading even further – he was _dying –_ and even though it was all of Sylar's construction, he couldn't do a thing to stop it. It drained him, killed him too, and he truly, genuinely wished that they could trade places. This, the man who had gone to such great lengths to secure his immortality and to regain his body, the same man who had also walked to his perceived death tonight in order to spare this precious specimen any harm.

  
  


Peter's unfounded apology strangled him, Sylar – the true guilty party here, the intruder on this moment. Half of him belonged here by his lover's side, but the other half should perish for doing this even to his nemesis. Sylar knew he didn't even deserve to be in Peter's vicinity after doing such a thing, but out of his own selfishness he would never leave him. “For what?” He squeaked, and had to lean down to catch the too-faint reply.

  
  


“Promised... to look after y...” But he didn't finish the rest. Sylar heaved down air in painful gasps that burned on the way down, and tried to wipe his own tears from Peter's face. But there was too much blood on his hand already that he instead just smeared it around, mingling with the tears, and making everything worse as he always did.

  
  


Peter's eyes were slowing behind the fragile skin of his eyelids, and Sylar clutched for his intuitive aptitude in a last-ditch effort to discover how to fix the little man... but everything was already broken beyond repair, shutting down bit by bit. The only part of him that was even almost working were his pale, drained and asymmetrical as ever -

  
  


Desperate, ignoring the crippling sensation of worthlessness and deceit for taking this thing that didn't quite belong to him anymore, he curved over and gently encased Peter's lips with his own. He kissed him, upside down, bringing his hands around to cup the lifeless face, holding on for everything he was worth. For a long while he just stayed that way, with the feel of Peter's ice-like mouth grounding him to the spot and the taste of the man's hot blood flowing along the crease of his lips stopping him from keeling over and giving up. He screwed his eyes shut, unable to do anything more than just _hope_ he wasn't too late.

  
  


For too long nothing at all happened. And then a twitch, just tiny, just innocent, reciprocated the kiss. Sylar held his breath and crushed his lips further to Peter's, soon feeling his face begin to tingle where the pair's skin met. Unwilling to look up until he was absolutely certain, Sylar kept his eyes firmly shut and saw the world light up gold beyond his eyelids. He allowed his other senses to paint the picture for him: he felt the person below him twitch a few more times, then actually squirm! Then he heard the crunch and grind of bones re-attaching themselves and the wet sound of skin stitching over.

  
  


Only when Peter started writhing beneath him did Sylar pull back, gasping and gaping as the man who only seconds ago had almost been gone from this earth winced, grit his teeth and moaned while his body healed back to perfection.

  
  


*

  
  


Finally able to breathe properly, Peter choked and coughed up the reject blood from his lungs. He wiped his chin, shaking and spent and drenched in the sticky, hot substance from head to toe. Fuck, that was way too close. His whole being buzzed with the sensation of returning from the brink of death (unfortunately it wasn't a new feeling), and he gulped down air in grateful lungfuls, having been unable to breathe fully since he'd attacked Sylar atop the balcony.

  
  


His hands slipped in the generous pools of blood around him as he struggled to sit up properly, then felt a tentative touch help him turn around. He blinked at Gabriel, starved for that shining, purpled, distressed face, and touched his fingers to it now he was able. Shit, he'd been so scared that he never would again...

  
  


Gabriel looked terrified at the touch and continued to just stare at him as if he couldn't believe his eyes, and Peter didn't think he'd ever been happier to see anyone in his life. He dived forward and hugged the man, clawing at him to get closer and intending to disappear into him forever.

  
  


*

  
  


Sylar hesitated before eventually hugging back. It would be so easy to convince himself that everything was okay and just melt back into the way of things, tell Peter how much he loved him and pretend that nothing had changed. But he felt wrong, dirty for doing this and letting it continue – because he was pretty sure that Peter didn't _know_.

  
  


“Y... you're okay...?” The empath uttered, sounding baffled, somewhere from the vicinity of Sylar's chest. “Gabriel... you're _okay!_ ” He repeated, shuffling further against him and disintegrating more of Sylar's vital organs with his relief. The shaking man in his arms mumbled the same words over and over, convincing himself it was true while every word was really laced with dishonesty. The way he was acting, it was as if he'd imagined some miraculous escape from the _evil_ Sylar and that his beloved Gabriel had conquered and survived. Sylar bit his lip and pressed his cheek to the top of Peter's head, uncaring about the blood now covering almost all of him, and just holding onto this bliss while it lived out it's last moments.

  
  


“Wh-what happened? I mean, how – _how_ did you...?!” Peter breathed, pulling back and cradling Sylar's face with two trembling hands. That expression would surely melt even the coldest of hearts, for it sure did this murderer's: beaming tearfully with bewildered eyes and the little lip that did all kinds of things to Sylar. It seemed that Peter was genuinely waiting on a reply, but he couldn't bring himself to shatter the guy's precious hope and break him again. Maybe worse than he ever had done before.

  
  


He was spared from answering, however, when after the initial few seconds of relief waned, the smaller man's face flickered and the light within him started to fade. His hands slackened and slipped away, warmth was sucked from his eyes and his forehead creased in despair as he examined Sylar with an intensity rivalled perhaps only by the former watchmaker himself. Sylar involuntarily clenched his fingers in the fabric at Peter's waist, but otherwise made no further move to stop this before everything disappeared.

  
  


*

  
  


It was only little things, but they told Peter everything he needed and hated to know. The slick, severe hairstyle, the missing cardigan (Gabriel's favourite one), the way all this blood incited not even a shiver in the man, the slight but poignant change in his demeanour...

  
  


He shook his head numbly, as if that could change things. “ _No_...” He breathed, losing feeling all over again in a sick imitation of his paralysis moments ago.

  
  


“Peter -”

  
  


“NO!” He bellowed this time, starting to hyperventilate. _Gabriel...!_ He didn't even want to think it, but there was no way to avoid the truth when it was literally right in his face and grasping him by the waist. “ _Let go of me!_ ” He snarled, scurrying backwards up the steps, slipping and sliding in his own spilled blood. Spilled at the hand of _that_ man.

  
  


“Wait!” The killer begged – actually _begged_. Sylar. Begging. It was so unlike him, yet Peter couldn't escape the talons injecting fear and regret all through him. Sylar stood and followed Peter up a few steps, face still tear-stained and Peter's blood dirtying his lips from the kiss that he'd stolen. _Gabriel's_ kiss. “Please let me explain!”

  
  


“Get the _hell_ away from me!” Finally Peter got a steady grip on the banister and hauled himself to his feet. He would have – _should_ have – been going in for battle yet again, but all he wanted was to be as far away as possible from the man who's body heat still warmed him. Adrenaline was pumping furiously through his veins, only increasing the emotional pain that ravaged him. “Wh-what've you _done_...?! You... you _killed_ him! YOU KILLED HIM!” He roared. He was crying again – he didn't even give a fuck if Sylar saw. He had already fallen as far as he could go, and why the hell should he be _ashamed_ to cry in front of the monster who had cold-heartedly eliminated the people he loved?!

  
  


*

  
  


“Peter, _please!_ It's not what you think!” Sylar insisted quietly and stopped chasing him, refusing to further frighten him with a raised voice or pursuit. He wondered if it was obvious from the outside how badly it destroyed him to witness this: the person who still meant more to him than anything reacting that way after all the beautiful times they'd shared so recently, the times that _he_ had ripped from them.

  
  


Maybe it was what he'd said, or maybe it was because he had stopped following that Peter also stopped running away. He was still a good few steps above Sylar and looked on the verge of bolting at the slightest indication, but the very fact that he had hesitated at all gave Sylar much-needed confidence. “You're telling me...” Peter spoke deeply, shakily, with maddening restraint. “That _he's_ in there? Gabr...?” He never finished the name, but he didn't need to.

  
  


Sylar's answer got stuck in his throat while he battled for how best to word it when he _himself_ didn't even know what was going on. The empath's knuckles tightened on the banister and he gnawed his lip anxiously before speaking deliberately and clearly. “Are you him?” He inhaled sharply and raised his chin in defence, but the very air around him was ripe with vulnerability. “Or are you Sylar?”

  
  


*

  
  


Peter forced himself not to dream, not to hope, not to set himself up for yet another crunching blow to the heart. His hands were shaking and his cheeks were wet, but more from fury now than grief. Peter watched the very person he had given all of himself to close his eyes and dip his head, and his stomach dropped even before any words were spoken.

  
  


“Both... I think.” Sylar said, then chanced a look up at Peter who hardened his frown in response. Both? What the hell did that mean? That he had all the memories and intimate knowledge, coupled with the desire and contempt to use them against Peter?! “I-I mean, I remember everything. These past years, the last few weeks, _everything_ between us...”

  
  


He tried to reach out but Peter jumped further back a step as another chip of him was hacked away. So yes, the man had everything. Everything he needed to shatter the empty shell that was Peter like glass. A flush crawled it's way up his face and he really tried not to tarnish all the magical experiences he'd shared with Gabriel with the knowledge that Sylar now had them all. He could butt right into them as often as he liked, in as much detail as he liked. It physically hurt to feel so exposed, every inch of him violated by the person he hated above all others – he had no privacy left! Not his divulged secrets, or his shared memories... not even an inch of his body was safe from the prying eyes of his worst enemy.

  
  


Sylar licked his lips and another tear fell free as Peter was reminded so strongly of the motion on the man he had loved and lost. He sniffed and wiped his running, bloody nose on his already bloody sleeve. “I... I don't know how to explain it.” Sylar thought aloud, blazing his eyes over the distance into Peter so hard that a tremble ran right through him. “I'm... still both people. Together.” He stabbed a finger into his temple. “It's confusing, conflicting and a hell of a shit show in here, and it's probably going to take a while to work it all out, but I _know_ how I feel about you, Peter –”

  
  


“Don't say -!”

  
  


“- I love you.” He licked his lips again and Peter's heart broke a little bit more. The paramedic almost bit right through his tongue and turned his face away. Anything rather than look at Sylar while he abused those sacred words.

  
  


*

  
  


The confession rebounded off the walls around the two men, repeating themselves over and over. Sylar watched more tears leak down Peter's face despite his attempts to hide them, and braved the next step forward. Yes, he knew it wasn't fixing anything, but he had to say _something_! To do _anything_ to make Peter _understand_!

  
  


“I know what you told me about... being together when I'm this way, and of course I get it. I do. And I don't even blame you, Peter, but how d'you know for sure it wouldn't work unless we _t_ _ry_?”

  
  


“That _wasn't_ you! Don't even try to play me, or I swear to god I'll kill you.” Peter spat, and Sylar didn't doubt the promise of it.

  
  


“Play you? What d'you mean? I would never try to-”

  
  


“Don't you _dare_ use his memories to, to trick me!”

  
  


“No! I wouldn't! And they're _mine_ -”

  
  


“I'm through with you, Sylar!” The empath shouted, his voice harrowing and distorted in the echo. “ _Look_ at what you've done! You thought this was a game?! Just round up a couple of hostages and trap not just _me_ , but _Gabriel_ into a situation where only you could win?! What kind of sick bastard takes pleasure in that?! How the hell d'you think I could _ever_ be with you...?!”

  
  


The painful truth broke over Sylar repeatedly, knocking the air from him and leaving him to wallow and mope and do nothing more than despise himself. Because it _was_ all truth. He had done all of that, for an ambiguous cause, sure, but it didn't have to be done the way it had been. It was immensely important that Peter understood, but he resented the way it sounded a lot like he was trying to justify his actions.

  
  


“I just wanted my body back, I didn't want to live out the rest of my life in Matt's head. I only wanted to be whole again, I didn't do it to hurt you.” He said, uncomfortably aware of the fact that at the time he had liked the fact that his plan did just that. But now he felt safe to admit to himself it was only a defence mechanism to try and make himself feel better. He had always envied Peter and his rich family, many perceived allies, “good” ability and the fact that everyone thought he could do no wrong. True, he hadn't often gone out of his way to knock the guy down a few notches, but it hadn't exactly turned him off an idea if he could one-up Peter while he was at it. That thought made him sick to his stomach now.

  
  


“Didn't do it to hurt me...?” Peter cried bitterly, shaking his head and spitting venom. “Well look around, Sylar: you went and did it anyway.” His voice tightened, growing in volume until it sang around the space like a fearsome choir. “So are you happy now...? You've won! I've lost, _everything!_ There's nothing left for you to take! Or, wait-” He looked over himself madly. “Y-you want _t_ _his_?! Huh? Take this too!” Fumbling at his wrist, he unfastened one of his best watches and hurtled it down the stairs with brutal strength.

  
  


Sylar flinched and it cracked off his forearm before bouncing to the ground and splashing in the blood. “Peter, don't-”

  
  


“There. _Now_ you have everything. That's all there is, unless you want me to physically carve out my heart and feed it to you on a silver platter!” Sizzling and smouldering with so much pent up emotion, Peter threw his next trembling words right through Sylar like a weapon, one which he utterly, truly deserved. “You've ruined my life. _You_ did. You took my brother from me, now G-Gabriel.” His mouth twisted and he scrubbed more tears away roughly before they had a chance to fall. “There's _nothing_ else. I'm done. So just leave me the fuck alone, Sylar.”

  
  


The man Sylar, who so many people thought was unfeeling, broke down into a tornado inside. That meant that when they left this place, that would be it. The _real_ “it” - over. He dropped his gaze, recuperating, before mustering up the strength to start climbing the staircase again. “Please don't do this.” He pleaded timidly, not allowing his eyes to land on Peter and make him feel targeted. “We should at least tal-”

  
  


“I said leave me ALONE!” Peter bellowed and turned his back on Sylar – on Gabriel – on everything that had happened. He cleared the top of the stairs and pelted away into the dark recesses of the library. Sylar wanted nothing more than to chase him, and knew he could stop him easily if he tried. But he wasn't the same guy who would hurt Peter Petrelli for his own means anymore. He cared about him too much now.

  
  


So as much as it stung and ached and burned... he let him leave.

  
  


The first thing Sylar saw when he got home were the bloody handprints on the back of the door. The old, faded ones were there of course: an ugly stamp of loss and betrayal of a time long past. Then there were new ones: barely two hours old, a mural of love and lust and the most physically intense, wonderful twenty two minutes of Sylar's split life. He traced his fingertips lightly over the imprint of Peter's hands, ignoring his own. He didn't spare a thought for his broken TV still scattered in pieces around the room, for it had served it's best purpose in giving him this memorial that he would never wash away.

  
  


The second thing he saw was the broken glass on the floor, and yet even _more_ blood spoiling and blessing his carpet. He was unpleasantly reminded of one other time involving Peter Petrelli, himself and shards of glass, then shivered and tugged himself back to the present. So much had changed since then. They'd climbed the mountain, achieved the unachievable... and then it had all come tumbling down in pieces.

  
  


Weeping openly, Sylar trailed through the apartment, not even bothering to stem his tears. He almost felt unwelcome in his own home, both like he hadn't been here in months and yet also that he had never left. The place was so empty, vacant despite the mess cluttering up the room, yet blissfully, wonderfully, the air still quietly pulsed with Peter's recent presence. Sylar let his numb feet carry him into the bathroom, where he found a toothbrush dropped in the sink and still covered in toothpaste. Peter's toothpaste. An essence of him left behind.

  
  


Sylar took it, wielding the thing like a torch in a blackout. He then tracked down and recovered the old, more-pink-than-red towel that had hugged Peter's bare skin just recently. Then he stripped off his blood encrusted clothes, curled up under the sheets that still smelled of someone else other than him and breathed into the towel – the closest thing he had to his lost friend. He tore apart inside, crucifying himself over the events of that night, replaying them over and over again while inhaling the second hand scent of Peter's skin and missing him more than his soul had missed his body.

  
  


He didn't move once from the confines of his bed, but his mind was flying across the city in search of the only thing he cared about. He wanted to apologise again, he wanted to explain. He wanted more than he had gotten, and most of all he wanted Peter to know that someone out there loved him this much.

  
  


It was only when the sunrise was tainting the sky outside that Sylar eventually gathered the courage to summon the phone into his hand.

  
  


*

  
  


“...I, I don't even have a good excuse because there isn't one. I don't blame you at all for hating me – _I_ hate me – but please don't just shut me out forever, Peter! I can't bear for it to end like this! Not after everything... Please, just... talk to me...”

  
  


Peter tried to ignore the voice, to drown it out. The answering machine blinked at him across the room but he couldn't muster the energy to cross to the thing and wrench it from the wall. Instead he just sat alone in his empty apartment, slouched on the floor with his back to the couch and surrounded by a dozen empty bottles. He had never really been one for drowning his sorrows with alcohol but, he'd figured, it couldn't harm to try, right? However, due to his regeneration the drinks had had no effect on him whatsoever, and every passing second had seared into his skin like poison.

  
  


It seemed that the harder he tried to avoid the excruciating truth of the situation the harder it all came back to bite him. He couldn't escape it. This was the moment he had been fearing since discovering the truth about Gabriel's conception – the agonising isolation and the glaring empty space where his companion should be but wasn't. He'd never felt so alone. This torture had bested him over and over in his dreams recently, only for him to wake kicking and screaming in the safety of Gabriel's embrace, greeted by tender kisses and reassuring words.

  
  


But this time the nightmare was real. And there was no waking up.

  
  


“Please, Peter. I'm _s_ _orry_. I'm sorry for – for hurting you, for scaring you, for breaking your heart over and over when you never did anything to deserve something like that. I swear, I'll never hurt you or anyone you care about ever again! I don't want to be like that anymore, I'm different now! Although of course I... I know you have no reason to believe or trust me. But I mean it. _Really_.”

  
  


A shudder rolled down Peter's spine and he kicked out at a nearby bottle, sending it spinning across the floor and crashing into the wall loudly. He grit his teeth and balled his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to spare himself from more of this endless suffering. He knew it was Sylar on the line, the puppet master who had gleefully cut each of Peter's vital strings over the years, except the one around his throat that he was now tugging on mercilessly. It was _Sylar._ Not Gabriel. Not the man who would make the bed mid-argument because he couldn't even mess up bedsheets, let alone people. All he could see was Sylar standing, so cold and uncaring, above Nathan's body as he watched him bleed to death, without even one flicker of remorse crossing the killer's face. No matter what delusion the guy was under now, or what game he had decided to play, or even what he even happened to _believe_... it was far too late for him now.

  
  


Peter drew his knees to his chin, pressing his face to them and smelling Gabriel. After his fourth shower that day, Peter had buried himself in a pair of pyjama pants that had last been worn by Gabriel the night before. He felt pathetic and broken and thoroughly ruined from the inside out, but that was not going to go away anytime soon. Little hitching sobs and gruff sighs attempting to counteract the tears had been his only company all night, and he'd cried off and on in a constant pattern that just refused to break.

  
  


He longed for Gabriel, to smell him in person and touch him, and he couldn't escape the thought that if he were still here... the timid, caring watchmaker would most definitely be sitting on the ground with Peter, holding him, taking the pain away bit by bit in the magical way he seemed to do. Even if they didn't talk, even if they did nothing but huddle here, he had no doubt that Gabriel would make it his mission to let Peter know in his own subtle, wonderful way that he wasn't alone in this big bad world.

  
  


But he wasn't here. He had abandoned Peter. And the world had never felt this hostile.

  
  


“You know I could easily find you. ...But I'm not going to chase or hunt you down. I'm going to respect your wishes and give you the space you want. I... just need to know if there's even the slightest chance that this isn't it... _us_... finished? Please! Give me something...?” There was a void in the message, expectant and painfully hopeful.

  
  


But Peter didn't even twitch towards the phone.

  
  


The silence yawned, filled only by pained, laboured breathing. Then, just a whisper. “...I miss you.”

  
  


The machine clicked and the lack of that voice pushed in on Peter's eardrums violently. The space stifled him and every hair on his body stood on end due to sizzling isolation. His shoulders shook out of his control once again, he scrubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes and slid slowly to lie on the bare floorboards, exhausted. He saw only Gabriel behind closed eyelids and, finally, was ready to cry himself to sleep in hopes of being reunited with him in his dreams.

  
  


  
  


***

  
  


  
  


So the days went by. Nothing. Then weeks. Not as much as a whisper of him. Sylar _did_ begin to doubt himself and what he had shared with Peter, fearing he had thought it all up in his mind and that the other man had moved on with his life and forgotten all about him. This separation was torture after such a raw ending, especially after going no longer than five days without Peter in a long time. Still he waited, hopefully and besotted, for the day that this punishment might end... but it never came.

  
  


He kept his vow – he didn't hunt Peter down or follow him around, as much as he wanted to. Many times he found himself calling the man's number, only to promptly cut it off before the line could connect. There was still so much left unsaid... but the last thing he wanted was for Peter to feel victimised or frightened of him. So he did nothing. Nothing at all.

  
  


Sometimes he told himself he was hiding in his apartment in order to spare the world from having to deal with him, but mostly he knew better. There was nothing for him out there now, there was no reason for him to leave this room when everywhere he went, destruction grew in his wake. He had no purpose anymore, no further interest in scalping specials to feed his ever growing collection of abilities. What good were fear and power to him now? When all he wanted was the one thing he could never steal or coerce or torture someone into giving him: his love, returned.

  
  


Over time the apartment started to compress around him: after all there were only so many time-pieces he could stand fixing before he began seeing cogs in the very walls. Eventually he reached breaking point, when it was time to either do or die and nothing in between. So finally he gathered enough courage to put his grandest plan into motion, and on the fifth week since the events of the library, Sylar left his apartment behind and flew across the sky with the purest source, love, fuelling his motivation.

  
  


The journey took forever yet also was over far too quickly. He floated dizzyingly towards the door, nervous and very possibly about to throw up, but overall he was determined. Things couldn't go on this way any longer, and it was up to _him_ to make the first step in fixing it. He repeated this encouraging thought to stop himself from aborting the plan like the coward he very nearly was, finally reached the door... and knocked. There was no backing out now.

  
  


The wait was excruciating. His heart thundered in his chest and he hoped he would be able to at least get a word out before the inevitable attack came his way... When the door opened Sylar caught every muscle on the man's face twitch in shock, then morph until he looked positively appalled to see this particular guest here. Not that it wasn't understandable, of course.

  
  


He looked terrified, anxious, then just about ready to throttle Sylar with his bare hands, so the intelligent man forced himself to express what he'd come all the way here to say. “Wait! Before you say or do anything! ...I need your help.” He fought with all the restraint he had not to let his aching chest burst open. “And I know I have no right to ask you for it after everything that happened, and I'm sorry about that – I really am! – but I have no one else to turn to.”

  
  


Sylar withered under the icy scowl and forced himself to steady his wobbling voice. He had to do it. He _had_ _t_ o. “I was wondering... if you'd take away my abilities?” Sylar waited, anxious and aware that his fate was solely in this man's hands.

  
  


There was a ringing silence while the gears visibly span inside Matt Parkman's head. Then he sighed. “Okay. Okay, Sylar... I'll help you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end! There is still more story to come, don't worry, and I promise I will try to get the next chapters up as soon as possible X) Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Please go and check out the anniversary fanart I drew of this chapter ^.^ http://thefieryeclipse.deviantart.com/art/What-You-ve-Done-676452739


	18. Little Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two. There are two messages waiting for Peter when he gets home. One from Angela... and one from someone else...

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual quiet hubbub that accompanied the early hours of the morning. Staff, patients and their families were scattered throughout the tables, and the distinct pang of cheap coffee hung over the place like a sticky film. It wasn't the nicest location in the world by far, but Hesam had always found a sense of belonging in this particular part of the hospital. It was a pity he didn't have more time to spend in here, for he found it provided the perfect wind down after an extra strenuous shift like tonight's.

  
  


Peter had been on top form all night of course: running on hyper-drive and doing everything at once. And while that was great for tonight's mugging victim and drunk driver, it really took its toll on the guy himself. Hesam surveyed his work partner over the top of his cup, the thin plastic almost searing the flesh from his palms. Peter had contributed to and laughed at Hesam's elaborate re-telling of the disastrous planning of his niece's birthday party, but now that the story was finished the man had receded back into himself. His fingers were tapping an anxious rhythm off the table and although he was only sitting across the table from Hesam, it couldn't have been clearer that he was a million miles away. Poor guy.

  
  


The past five weeks had been more intense for Peter than Hesam had ever witnessed – and they'd seen a fair few undisclosed rough patches over their partnership. This time it was different though, the man's brother had died, and Hesam wasn't unaware of the idolisation that Peter had borne for the senator. Not to mention that he assumed things with “the girl” had gone down the drain, as Peter no longer ran home early or spent his shifts in a dreamy haze. In fact, quite the opposite: he had probably pulled the record amount of back to back shifts and drowned himself in work more than anyone else in the building put together. Hesam didn't know if Peter had gone home at all this week, and it was only now that he had been _instructed_ to by the boss that he was even only reluctantly leaving the building. Hesam couldn't even understand how he could stay standing unless he was privy to some magic serum or rejuvenating blood or something that he was keeping under wraps, but Peter's drive was admirable all the same. Even if it had relegated Hesam to nothing much more than a chauffeur during their shared shifts.

  
  


He didn't resent it too much, though. He just ached in sympathy. He had always known Peter Petrelli to be private and guarded, wounded by a past that he never divulged... but he had never been this broken, Hesam was quite sure of it. Which was why he had finally suggested this little coffee break as an excuse to drag Peter from the job for twenty or so minutes. Or, apparently, three and a half.

  
  


“Hey, I'd best get going. I have a... uh, thing.” Peter downed the last dregs of his drink and stood, already itching to get going.

  
  


“You for real?” Hesam chuckled, almost awed by the man's lack of patience when it came down to keeping himself looked after. “That's gotta be the fastest anyone's ever finished this toxic crap!” He lofted his still full cup.

  
  


Peter squirmed a little and eyed Hesam's mostly untouched coffee. The Iranian watched as his partner seemed to snap back into reality, suddenly looking shy about his hasty exit. “Yeah, I know. It's just the... thing. My mom. She's, uh, invited herself over for... family brunch. Yeah. Today.”

  
  


“You need hours to make brunch for one woman? What is she, the Queen?” Hesam asked dubiously, eyeing the clock on the wall. It was barely 2am.

  
  


“What? Yeah. Well. You've never met my mother.” Peter said with a hollow chuckle, running a hand through his hair nervously. Dishonesty was probably one of the only things the man wasn't good at, but Hesam wasn't about to drag him back if he was _that_ desperate to escape that he'd use his own mother as an excuse. But then again, he probably didn't have anyone else to use, and was most likely going home to an empty apartment.

  
  


*

  
  


“Right. Well. I don't envy your night, bro.”

  
  


Hesam stood up too, and Peter pretended not to see the thinly-veiled sympathy on his face. He hadn't really expected his lie to convince anyone, but it was better than stating right out that he had nothing to go back to. Or that he couldn't stand to be here another second when he was prohibited from doing anything useful until his next shift started.

  
  


He forced a smile, which came to him surprisingly easily. “Yeah. Hope the party works out. Tell Kayla happy birthday from me, alright?” He said, zipping up his jacket and shrugging his medical bag onto his shoulder. Eager to escape but dreading going home, Peter stumbled his way past the plastic chairs and had just taken his first step towards the door when a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter turned back, seemingly a little surprised by the manhandling. “Listen, Pete...” Hesam said quietly, lowering his voice although everyone else here was lost in their own little bubbles anyway. Truthfully, his main reason for kicking Peter into a coffee break was to say this, and it seemed that if he didn't now then he'd have lost his chance. He squeezed his fingers slightly. “I know this time hasn't been... easy on you. But y'know you can talk to me don't you? If you ever want to let off some steam, or just need an ear to vent at... I'm right here.” He smiled warmly.

  
  


It was intended to be comforting, however Peter looked like he was either about to burst into tears (what? Had nobody ever said something like that to him before?) or run away in terror at the very thought of prying open the top-secret vault that was his personal life. “Hey, relax. I'm a paramedic. There's not much that can shock me anymore.” Hesam teased. Although of course he suspected that he would get nowhere with this, it didn't harm to try.

  
  


*

  
  


Peter really, truly appreciated the offer. Just the fact that someone would take the time to say that at all had stabbed a painful stake through his chest. Lonely and forgotten, he hadn't confided in anyone since Gabr... since the events in the library. He had spoken to Angela as little as possible, and apart from her nobody had even bothered with him since the funeral – not even Claire.

  
  


It was probably for the best though, he reasoned, as he wouldn't even know what to say to anyone who approached him: his brief affair with the body of his arch enemy had of course been covered up by Angela, and Peter was less than inclined to spell his heartbreak out to anyone anyway. It was probably better that he was left alone... although nobody would ever know of that lost, beautiful soul who had existed for such a short while yet made his permanent impact on this one man's life...

  
  


So now, having someone here, the closest thing to a friend he had left (although this foundation was built on half-truths and omitted facts) who actually seemed to care about him enough to ask after him, was a commodity Peter had never expected. He couldn't believe he had lived his whole life this way until recently, and never even noticed how awful it was to drown in his own thoughts and worries that could never escape him – instead only festering away, feeding off each other and growing more heavy and sickly in confinement.

  
  


He really wanted to take Hesam up on his offer, to scream and cry and set release all the murkiness from within. But he couldn't. Hesam was only being nice, innocently so. He might be desensitised to blood and guts but somehow Peter doubted he'd be okay hearing all about super-powered humans and the painful dance of split souls roaming between one body and the next.

  
  


So he only nodded and hitched his bag higher onto his shoulder. “Thanks man... but I'm fine. Really.” He said with a tiny shrug and another forced smile, knowing just how pathetically transparent he was but unable to do anything about it.

  
  


Hesam raised his eyebrows, as if waiting for something more. But when nothing came he smiled in understanding, nodded and patted Peter's shoulder affably. “Okay. Well, just so you know.”

  
  


“Yeah. Appreciate that. See you Thursday.” This time Peter successfully disentangled himself from the chairs and weaved his way through the tables to the exit. He didn't look back, desperate to leave and afraid that Hesam's little act of kindness would break open the seal on his emotions that he had worked so hard to weld closed.

  
  


He only went home because he had nowhere else to go.

  
  


He hated this place nowadays, barren and cold without the warmth of another person. He was isolated again, worse than he ever had been, even in the time before visiting Baltimore. Now he was painfully aware of what he was missing. He had taken to sleeping on the couch because the bed was far too big for just himself, and he couldn't get comfortable without the weight of someone else lying beside him. It was positively cruel how quickly he had gotten used to sleeping in the arms of another man, and now he couldn't even look in the direction of his bedroom without aching all over.

  
  


Currently, he wrestled with his front door – it was getting stiff again on its hinges. Yet another thing he resented about his apartment: it was as if everything was teaming up against him to erase every sign of the sweet, gentle man who now lived only within Peter's heart.

  
  


When he kicked the door open he was greeted by the sound of his own voice, like a similar night he'd come home after a double shift long ago. Except this time he would rather it really _was_ a future version of himself instead of a message from a doctor in Baltimore that would throw his life into upheaval all over again.

 

“ _Hey, this is Peter, leave a message. Get back to you when I can. Thanks._ ” Muscles tensing, he waited until his answering machine beeped and his mother's voice filled the room before shouldering his way inside the apartment.

  
  


“Hello dear, I assume you're out working yourself to death again. Or just choosing to ignore me.”

  
  


Peter scoffed, dumped his bag on the ground and crossed to the fridge for a bottle of water. The shelves were empty again, all remnants of that part of Peter's life over and done with. Some of the canned goods had lasted but he never opened the cupboards anymore, too scared of using up every last trace that Gabriel had ever been here at all. Not that it was difficult: Peter was only ever here now to catch few, infrequent hours of sleep and spent the rest of his time at work.

  
  


“I'm just calling to check up on you. I want to know you're okay.” Angela said, her voice tight over the phone.

  
  


Only then did Peter notice what was off about this phone call. By his watch it was just past half two in the morning – a time that Angela never saw unless from behind her eyelids. If this wasn't disconcerting enough, the clipped edge to her tone of voice had sent Peter's stomach plummeting. She was worried, trying to hide it and not to encourage him with whatever had worked her into enough of a state that she'd called him. Lacking the strength to talk to her at the moment, he only frowned, swigging his water and leaning against the wall as he let her leave her message.

  
  


“I thought we agreed you'd call more often, after... after Nathan's death.” She stated it so bluntly that Peter winced. And she wondered why he didn't call her up for a heart-to-heart now and then?! “Don't be so selfish, Peter. How can I relax never knowing what you're doing or if you're running around on some silly rescue mission or other?” Her voice then softened uncharacteristically. “...Just take care of yourself, sweetheart. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you too.”

  
  


The words should have been touching but they bounced off Peter, leaving only the slightest indent. It would be a lot easier to believe her protective, loving mother routine if he didn't have years worth of evidence to counteract it. The message ended, the machine beeped, and against his better judgement Peter crossed the room to call her back. His curiosity had been piqued, and despite himself he wanted to know what she had dreamt that was important enough to literally phone him up attempting to dissuade him against it...

  
  


Then he saw the little flashing number. Two. He had two messages waiting. One from Angela of course... and one from someone else. Peter froze, mouth still full of water, cheeks full. He knew exactly who it was from before even listening to it... he hadn't heard from him in weeks. He didn't _want_ to! But at the same time... it was most definitely connected to Angela's message. How could he _not_ check it out now? Peter gulped down his mouthful of water and it burned past his suddenly dry throat. Coughing and spluttering he reached for the machine and clicked the button even though he knew perfectly well it would destroy him.

  
  


“Peter? Um, hi... It's me.” Sylar. Of course it was. “Listen, I know I said I wouldn't call you again but...” His breathing was ragged down the line yet he spoke steadily, deliberately, and every passing second wound Peter into a tighter knot of anxiety and longing. That voice made him weak at the knees. It was exactly the same as Peter remembered it. “I wanted to tell you that I'm going to do something. Something good!” Sylar quickly added. “I-I hope. Well, what I mean is that it's not dangerous for anyone. Just... just me. Maybe.”

  
  


The paramedic was slowly losing feeling in his limbs as he dreaded every forthcoming word, petrified to hear the rest in case it fucked everything up even further. But there was no way he could stop listening now. The message continued. “I'm going to visit Park- uh, Matt, and ask him to... to take away my abilities.”

  
  


Wait... what? Peter squinted at his answering machine, unsure if he had heard that right. _Sylar?!_ Give up the powers he had literally killed and _died_ for?! The man himself sounded almost as shocked and surprised by this as Peter was, but cleared his throat and continued more determinedly. “I don't know what's going to happen, and there's a good chance Matt won't help me – not that I can blame him, but... maybe this'll be it. For me. Either way, I have to atone for everything I've done... the people I've killed... the sins I've committed... and I know I'll never be able to. But taking away this power to do all these awful things is at least the first step towards doing my part. Isn't it...? And, and even if Matt, well... doesn't help me, at least I'll never bother you or anyone else again.”

  
  


Slowly Peter tripped back until he found the arm of the couch and perched on it, grateful for the physical anchor. Sylar sighed and the most raw compassion so far grated through the machine, scrambling Peter's insides. “I know I've said it before but... I'm really, _really_ sorry for everything I've done to you. And, I guess I just wanted to let you know about Matt. I wanted to tell you something. Just in case...” He took a quivering breath, but his voice was balanced and serious when he next spoke. Six little words that tore into the empath like bullets.

  
  


“Goodbye, Peter. ...I'll always love you.” And the message clicked to a stop.

  
  


The silence after the deep voice faded wrapped around Peter claustrophobically. He screwed his eyes shut and tried not to feel sick hearing those treasured words said in the right voice by the wrong person. But he'd sounded so genuine... it almost felt _real_... _r_ _ight_ _._.. Feelings rose like bile, threatening to cripple the empath and send him into another tearful relapse. He shook all over, clinging to the couch for strength, and forced himself past the initial impact of pain with a tenacity he'd thought was above him.

  
  


Deep breaths. In. Out. It had been a while now since he'd last broken down, when the pain of losing both Nathan and Gabriel, combined with his renewed isolation and loneliness, had gotten the better of him. There had been a few close calls since, naturally. But he'd been doing so well until now...

  
  


Peter pushed away his feelings as best as he could until they only oozed back in through the cracks, and took his time to sift through this morning's new information. So: judging by Angela's message, the 'rescue mission' she was dreading and attempted to play off as merely as example of his lifestyle, Sylar's plan hadn't worked in his favour? He was either already in grave danger or going to be and, apparently, it was all Peter's fault? Because... because... he'd refused to associate with the person he hated more than anyone else on the planet?! Steadily, anger crawled its way over the empath, replacing his grief, and he jumped to his feet and began pacing furiously back and forth across the bare room.

  
  


Sylar's message was already a few hours old, and there was no telling what had happened to him. He could always call his mother and ask her, but on the off chance that she even told him the truth, she'd only try to hold him back from doing anything about it. Still, Peter didn't give a fuck about the killer. He knew this was probably just another manufactured plan to make him feel guilty and eventually give Sylar exactly what he wanted. It was the same thing as taking hostages in the library – tug on his conscience to control and force him into a situation he couldn't turn down! Except _this_ time Peter could turn it down. He had nothing left to lose, it couldn't get worse than it already was, surely?

  
  


But then... Gabriel... Peter stuck by his belief that his loved and lost friend was not still inside the vessel of Sylar's control, or if he was, he _definitely_ was no longer the the same person who had sacrificed himself so Peter could... what? Disintegrate like this?! It was hardly a life worth living.

  
  


Over these past few weeks, at times he'd been furious at Gabriel for making his decision and leaving Peter all alone. He'd cried for the man in his loneliest hours, he'd had to suffer through the aftermath of his lover and his big brother's deaths by himself, and all he'd wanted was to be held and supported by the only person he really cared about – the only person who really cared about _him_ – but when he reached out there was no one there. Just a disfigured, raw wound that gaped larger over time and refused to scab over. But despite this, even now Peter couldn't bring himself to fault the pureness of Gabriel's motivation to spare him pain, even though it had been pointless. To be loved that much that someone would literally die for him was the ultimate blessing and curse... a debt he could never repay to the one person he wanted to.

  
  


Tormented, conflicted, he threw his bottle of water as hard as he could into the far wall, letting out a growl of frustration and fisting his hands in his hair. Fuck! _F_ _uck!_ All he'd wanted was to come home to sleep for the least possible amount of hours before disappearing back into his routine of saving people and actually making a difference! Although _his_ life and sanity was dangling by a thread, somehow ensuring that other people's weren't had stitched him back together millimetre by millimetre until he wasn't quite as hopeless and wrecked as he had been. Then fucking Sylar and his fucking message had yet again burst into the picture to make sure Peter couldn't move on, as slowly and terribly as he was managing to do so.

  
  


How could he possibly ignore this and go back to the daily grind? Even if it _was_ _Sylar_ , and even if Peter _did_ hate him, it wasn't like he could just turn a blind eye to someone's possible death on _his_ account! Which was precisely the murderer's plan – he was sure of it! Son of a bitch! The fiery empath blazed around the room in a frenzy, struggling under the pressure of this dilemma and having nobody to turn to for help but himself. It should have been a good thing that Sylar was gone for good, right? If Matt _h_ _ad_ mind-raped him into a state where he could no longer be a danger to anyone, that should be great news! It wasn't Peter's problem! But then why did he literally perspire guilt from his very pores until he was left a shaking and sweating mess?

  
  


With a cry he kicked out at the only thing there to accept his rage – the couch. It hadn't been the best idea: the furniture only budged an inch and all Peter gained was a jarring pain in his toes that regeneration quickly eased. Then he slumped onto the cushions, head in his hands and stared unseeingly at the floorboards.

  
  


And then he saw the watch. Poking out from beneath the couch, revealed lying where it had been lost months ago. Numbly, Peter picked it up and stared at the crack running across the glass. He rubbed a hand over his face, puffing out a breath and blinking stinging eyes.

  
  


He remembered this watch. It was the one he'd worn to Odessa those years ago, when he had first met Claire. When he had first met Sylar. The fall from the stadium that had killed him had also cracked the glass, and until just a few weeks ago the damaged watch had lain abandoned in a drawer somewhere.

  
  


He also remembered it for being Gabriel's first hobby, the first task he had undertaken in his new life. The man had rummaged around inside the back of the casing over and over until Peter was sure the thing must've been worked to death. The memory was vivid although it was of a time within the first few days of their meeting. And here was the same old watch, working perfectly and running right on time, salvaged by the man Peter loved, the man who had seen the beauty and potential in something broken and discarded by everyone else... and in the watch, also.

  
  


Exasperated, Peter scrubbed at his face again, biting back anything more than a slight slant to his eyebrows. He knew what he had to do now. But it was only for the last tiny remnant of Gabriel that might possibly have survived, swathed in the darkest parts of the other man, he told himself firmly. He wasn't doing it for Sylar – he didn't owe the guy anything. In fact he deserved less than nothing! But not Gabriel, who deserved everything Peter had to give and more.

  
  


The airplane followed almost the same path through the sky that he had free-flown last time. Peter fidgeted uncomfortably under the impending sense of deja vu, although this time instead of flying this way to take revenge on a murderer: in a sick, twisted turn of fate, he was doing it to save the person who had single-handedly ruined his life and those of the people most dear to him.

  
  


He didn't want to do it. It would be quick and painless, he told himself, nothing more than a sense of duty completed and then he would be free to try to move on with his life again. He would do only what he had to, associate with Sylar as little as he could, get him out of there and not look back.

  
  


No matter what.

  
  


  
  


***

  
  


  
  


Really, he shouldn't have been surprised to see Peter Petrelli standing expectantly on his doorstep. And that wasn't even due to the fact that the guy had died the last time they'd met yet somehow he was now alive and well – he had already come across that truth earlier that day. No, what he should have prepared for was the inevitable rescue mission. The beast had destroyed everything there was about this little man, but yet despite this, here was the shining hero come to save the villain. Of course.

  
  


“Matt.” Peter greeted, looking not at the cop but straight past him into the depths of the house. His eyes were scanning around quickly and he was literally bouncing on the spot in agitation. Matt didn't even need to employ his ability – he could see the guy's motive written clearly on his face for all to see.

  
  


“Peter. You're looking pretty good for a corpse.” He said, infusing a spike of humour into his voice in attempts of throwing his visitor off course. If he could help it he was _not_ going to re-enact the last time this man had turned up unannounced at his door. He'd spent enough days wrapped in bandages and ice packs to last a lifetime.

  
  


Peter's attention then snapped to Matt at last, seemingly taking a while to catch up. “What? Oh. Oh, yeah, thanks.” He stopped fidgeting then, honest hope and a touch of vulnerability painting over his features now. “Listen... can I come in?” He asked gently, much more politely than his last visit, while also lacking the murderous passion that had driven him then.

  
  


In fact, he seemed more resigned, more void of feeling now than Matt had ever seen him over the years they'd known each other. It was hardly uncalled for considering recent history, but it was just so bizarre to see Peter Petrelli timid, cautious and second-guessing himself. For he most certainly was – doubt was rippling the very air around him now that he apparently hadn't found signs of what he had expected to find, and Matt relaxed. It seemed it wouldn't be that hard to send him packing without putting a spanner in the works of the machine Matt had spent all day building.

  
  


“Uh... no actually. No. Now's not really the best time. I've just put Matty down and if he doesn't sleep now he's up all night, so-”

  
  


“Please?” The paramedic asked quietly, and that shut Matt up quicker than anger would have done. “Matt, I know he came to you. Don't tell me he didn't.”

  
  


For a moment Matt considered denying it. But although he had played his part in some less-than-moral plots recently, he was no devil. Nobody could ignore the weariness etched into Peter's youthful face, the trace of too much hurt and heartbreak, and Matt just couldn't forget the glimpses into this man's loving past that he'd seen in the library. It really was a shame that he'd fallen so far since those tender moments atop rooftops and bridges. So instead of flat-out lying, Matt sighed in defeat.

  
  


*

  
  


“Y-you're right. He did.” The cop confessed, and Peter's chest tightened. “He asked me to help him. _Begged_ me. He was desperate. Mad, actually. He wanted me to... to take away his abilities.” So far none of this was unexpected information, but the way Matt delivered it, however, was. He sounded bleak, grim, and suddenly the empty house behind him seemed like less of a deceit. “But I said no. That I wasn't gonna help him. What – did he seriously think I'd ever do anything in his best interests after what he did to me?!” The cop then pointed to his head, and the last imprints of the bruises on his face.

  
  


Peter blinked, surprised. “Wait... you _didn't_ help him? You didn't do anything to him?” Matt shook his head in a matter-of-fact way, and Peter could swear he almost felt the tingle of lie detection, even though that power hadn't flowed through his body for weeks now. It didn't make sense: well, yes, Matt not wanting to help his tormentor was understandable, but what about Angela's message? What had she dreamt then if it wasn't this? He wanted to believe Matt, if only because another betrayal from this former ally would demean him forever in Peter's eyes, but his deep-rooted instincts flared against that impulse.

  
  


*

  
  


“Nope.” Matt said simply, watching a confused frown mar Peter's forehead. For a second he thought he'd gotten away with it, but then the empath's expression shifted from uncertainty to suspicion and Matt knew he had to wrap this up quickly or everything would be ruined. Clearly he had underestimated the man's resolve. Sure he _looked_ weak and malleable, but apparently Matt had gotten so used to manipulating people unchallenged that he had forgotten what it was like when someone stood against him. He hated the implications of that and how it made him look, but just chose not to dwell on it.

  
  


“Sorry I couldn't be more help.” Matt said, smiling falsely and grasping Peter's hand in a brisk handshake. He nudged the door with his foot, preparing to close it, and rambled jovially. “But as I said, Matty's asleep and I really ought to make the most of this time. I tell you, until you have children you never know how much you can get done in half an hour...!”

  
  


While Peter had returned the handshake cautiously, his eyes still bore into Matt's. The intensity of his gaze was burning, uncomfortably so. It was _so_ tempting to just mentally force him to leave, but Matt hadn't spent these past weeks since he'd got his freedom back learning to live without his ability for nothing. He had promised himself not to abuse this power anymore. Or well, more than once in one day at least...

  
  


Stupidly, he still hoped that Peter might leave. At least for an hour or two, until Matt could finish his current project and it would be too late to change anything... but it had been his own foolish mistake that went and shattered that ideal for good.

  
  


The paramedic flinched slightly, then the cop followed his gaze down to where his hand was stained red from the blood reside on Matt's. Damn, he'd forgotten about that! He hurriedly wiped his burst and bruised knuckles on his jeans even as Peter gasped and the frail curtain of normality was whipped aside.

  
  


*

  
  


What the hell...? Peter's pulse sped up frantically. The fluid on his hand was thick and sticky – it was definitely a recent wound – and he doubted Matt's knuckles had split of their own accord...

  
  


He didn't know what to do first, he didn't know what he was getting himself into and once again he didn't spare a thought to himself. Peter just gaped into the cop's reddening face until he felt himself move before even gathering the energy to do so. He shoved past Matt and raced through the house, lost and with too many paths to choose from, terrified and nauseated just at the thought of the man he had come here to save and what state he might find him in...

  
  


“Sylar?” He shouted, hurrying through the house and not for a second believing that 'Matty' was home. That was if he even existed in the first place! Peter was so battered by Matt and all his lies that he couldn't trust a word that came from that mouth. He said he'd turned Sylar away, but the blood told a different story. What had he done to him...? “ _Sylar?!_ ”

  
  


Suddenly Matt was in front of him, blocking a doorway off the kitchen and standing with his arms out to either side. Great, at least now Peter knew he was in the right direction. “Don't go in there!”

  
  


“Get outta my way, Matt!”

  
  


“No! Just l-leave him alone! This has nothing to do with you-”

  
  


“This has _everything_ to do with me!” Peter snarled, balling his fists and trying hard not to think about the fact that he _had_ _i_ nvoluntarily drawn Sylar to this place, like it or not. Cold chills ran through him. No matter who it was through that door, if someone had _died_ because of him...

  
  


That nasty thought process was abruptly cut short by the telltale prying sensation threatening to work its way into his mind. In a split second, Peter captured the sight of Matt's set jaw and beady eye, desperately drilling his ability into Peter. He felt all his muscles tense and heard air whip past his ears. Then his fist collided with something soft and Matt bowled to the side, coughing and gripping his stomach. The empath glowered down at the cop, feeling less than remorse for that punch – the guy well and truly deserved it that time for trying to mind control him.

  
  


While Matt was down he skipped around him, fast and nimble, burst the door open and found himself at the top of a set of stairs leading into a shadowy basement. What the hell was Matt cooking up down here...? Peter fumbled his way down each step as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, dreading what he might find.

  
  


“...S-Sylar...?” He called out again, his voice rough. No reply. He swallowed, eyes roaming the vast space and stomach jolting each time he caught sight of a new shadow that only turned out to be boxes, bikes or an old wheelbarrow. By the time he crossed the last step he could see clearer, and hitched a little breath when his foot splashed in a sticky, dark puddle and something crunched beneath the sole of his shoe.

  
  


A tooth. It was a tooth. One of the many that Peter had watched Gabriel brush religiously every morning and night for precisely two minutes and not a second more or less. Instantly Peter gagged, stomach convulsing as if to throw up, but nothing burned up his throat other than a distressed cry that he couldn't have held back if he'd tried.

  
  


“Peter! Stop! Don't go any further!” Matt's pleas only served to drive Peter's resolve, and he splashed and slipped his way through even more blood while the cop thundered down the stairs, frightened of what he'd find but determined not to let Matt get to it first. Then he saw him. Sylar. Crumpled in a bloody heap on the floor beside the still wet, half-built foundations of a red brick wall.

  
  


Despite the state of him, he looked the same as Peter remembered. Although, an image of that man had been seared onto the backs of his eyelids for all eternity, so that was hardly surprising. But the moment his gaze sought out that face Peter felt a dry sob worm its way up his throat. He forced it back down, only barely. Well and truly shaken, his breath was stolen from him upon setting eyes on the flesh and blood of the ghost from his dreams and nightmares at last. It hurt to see him in person again, and for a second Peter didn't think he was strong enough to tiptoe closer. He wished his reluctance was only due to the violence, but it wasn't. It was a lot harder to remember to hate the man when he was lying there that way.

  
  


Then years of medical training kicked in, and somehow Peter was able to actually approach the fallen man, roll him onto his side and check his pulse. He tried to ignore who this was, the gruesome amount of blood on him and the fizzle of electricity that ran through his body at touching this skin for the first time in weeks. Of all the times he'd thought about him (whenever he'd dared to imagine seeing him again) it hadn't been like this.

  
  


“What the hell did you _do_ to him?!” Peter spat at Matt, horrified by the condition of Sylar – the most powerful man in the world – at the fists of his former friend. The paramedic fussed over the unmoving murderer, fearing the worst. His hands were shaking and his own heartbeat was hammering so hard that it was difficult to feel past it, but eventually he found the throb of life through those veins, frightfully slow but undeniably real. Then he moved onto inspect the severity of the wounds, a mountain of a job judging by the amount of gore coating the floor from here to the staircase. Only, he found Sylar to be in perfect health, a pristine specimen drenched in pints of his own blood. “What did you _do?!_ ” Peter repeated, a tiny mewl that somehow escaped his constricted throat.

  
  


Behind him, he heard Matt exhale in defeat. “I let him heal. Then I hid his abilities somewhere he can't reach them. I did as he asked.”

  
  


“He asked to have _this_ done to him?!”

  
  


Matt didn't answer. Peter shuddered, drowning beneath air that was too thick to breathe and tasted like blood. There were no defensive wounds on Sylar that he could see, although the regeneration would have erased them anyway. What sickened him the most was that Matt seemed to barely have a scratch on him, except his knuckles. There were no signs at all to suggest anything other than Sylar had just sat and let himself be beaten... or – even worse – perhaps he'd already been unconscious throughout the ordeal that had fucked him up this badly. He tried not to picture it, but once he caught sight of a discarded, bloody baseball bat, multiple broken bricks and – perhaps the worst of all – a bent and mauled crowbar, it was impossible _not_ _t_ o imagine what had transpired here.

  
  


It most certainly wasn't the first time that Peter had seen this man hurt, but this was contrastingly different to the many fights he'd had himself with Sylar. Those had been mutual, those had been almost equal. Whereas this was purely evil – luring someone in with a promise of help then kicking them while they were down without giving them a chance to defend themselves! It was grotesque, and he didn't even want to know what the ominous half-wall building a person-sized void in the foundations under Matt's house was intended for.

  
  


Now he had to doubt whether Sylar really _had_ done this willingly with the sole intention of guilting Peter here. It had to have been genuine, right? It wasn't worth this... butchering, just to make a point. But then again, Peter would never have believed that Matt Parkman could do such a thing, so maybe Sylar hadn't either...?

  
  


“You're sick, Matt. How could you do this to someone...?”

  
  


“No! He – he's fine. Look!” The bigger man stammered. As if the lack of present cuts could ever make what he'd done justifiable.

  
  


“Then why isn't he waking up?!” Peter demanded, breathing through his mouth and trying to steady his trembling hands as he cradled one beneath Sylar's head. He softly slapped the man's cheek in a weak attempt to rouse him, but when that did nothing he moved on to check over his vital signs again in a weak attempt to find out what was wrong with the patient.

  
  


He couldn't begin to comprehend that this unconscious figure was the same mastermind behind his hollow life, or that the chest he was currently touching harboured the same heart that had beat against his own in another life. He didn't look like Sylar. In this restful, relaxed slumber he looked so peaceful, so innocent in his dreams like he had while sleeping by Peter's side not too long ago. The familiarity stung him painfully and the empath was untimely reminded that his feelings for Gabriel hadn't faded an ounce since he had lost him. It didn't even matter that the person within this vessel was responsible for that, for no matter who he was, no matter the history – never in a million years could Peter possibly just walk away and leave someone to suffer a fate such as this.

  
  


*

  
  


Watching the youngest Petrelli member fawn over the devil's body with gentle hands and misplaced concern was uncomfortably similar to the snatches of intimate memories that Matt shouldn't have seen within Sylar's head. He shifted awkwardly, not guiltily, for he didn't regret what he'd done in this basement, nor what he still planned on doing once he got Peter to leave.

  
  


“He's not waking up because I moved his consciousness.” Matt said simply, tilting his head and feeling sympathy for the guileless man churn away at him. Not for Sylar, of course, just for the third party who had been unwittingly weaved into this mess and was far, far out of his depth.

  
  


“...What? You did what? What does that even _mean_?”

  
  


Matt tried not to sound smug, but really it was quite the achievement he had single-handedly pulled off. Nobody else had ever succeeded in stopping Sylar, after all. Even if he wasn't entirely sure how long his bonds would hold, it was undoubtedly impressive. “I trapped him inside his worst nightmare. He's stuck in his mind forever, kept in a prison that will actually hold him.” Then he added bitterly. “The prison he deserves.”

  
  


Peter's face lifted in Matt's direction and his lips moved repeatedly as if to form words, but no voice left them. Not that he even needed them, the disgust was more than evident in his expression. At that, Matt bristled a little. “I did it for the world! It's better off without him in it! It wasn't personal!” He tacked on the last part in half-hearted hopes of getting Peter off his back.

  
  


But the guy merely choked as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Not _p_ _ersonal_?! This is torture, Matt! It's inhumane! Are you telling me you'd do this to anyone else?!”

  
  


“No of course not! ...Okay, okay maybe it _is_ personal – but this son of a bitch deserves it! Did you forget what he did to me? To _you?_ To Nathan?”

  
  


*

  
  


Of course merely the mention of his brother's name scalded him, and Peter chewed through the uncomfortable truths that Matt had dumped on him. Regardless, what the telepath had done here was beyond despicable – beating up Sylar was bad enough, ripping his soul from his body even, but leaving someone to go insane trapped in an immortal body for all of time, unable to die, unable to escape, was a horror that Peter doubted even Sylar himself would be capable of bestowing.

  
  


Yes, Peter still hated the killer. He still despised him for wrecking his life. But somehow... while the all-powerful and infamous man was lying there, for once the true victim of a crime instead of being the one causing it, suddenly it wasn't so difficult for Peter to make himself save his brother's murderer after all. “Bring him back.” He demanded, trying to muster up all his strength into his voice while simultaneously keeping it steady.

  
  


The cop just lofted his eyebrows and shook his head in one short flick, hands on his hips. “No.”

  
  


“Matt! You can't just do this to him!”

  
  


“Why not?” Matt shrugged. “Huh? No matter what he's deluding himself into – he's not your boyfriend anymore, Peter.”

  
  


That word sizzled like ice, clenching Peter's muscles and making his head pound as the coldness froze his skull. He cringed at the way Matt had just said it like that, all-knowing and chiding. It hurt the most because it was the first time that particular label had ever been used to class his and Gabriel's relationship, and Peter hated Matt even more right then for stealing that. Once again he was made aware of the gaping void in his heart where Gabriel should be, and it only made him more determined. He was here for a reason.

  
  


*

  
  


“You think I don't _know_ that...?” Peter hissed through gritted teeth, and Matt saw his fingers clench protectively on the bloody lapels of Sylar's black coat, defending him like an animal from a predator. “But he's in this mess because of me. And I can't just leave him here!”

  
  


Matt scoffed, absolutely stunned by Peter's naïveté and blindness. Was this guy for real? “Yeah? Well what happens if he wakes up and goes on another rampage?” He popped open the top button of his shirt, suddenly perspiring too much even in the cool, dank basement. Sadly, Matt knew that his visitor was the least likely person to give up on a cause once he set his heart on it, no matter how deluded or ridiculous that cause was. And it seemed he was hell-bent on this one, which worried Matt to no end. “He's a monster, Peter! He's dangerous – it's only a matter of time! You're letting your emotions impair your judgement –”

  
  


“And you're _not?!_ ” The smaller man stood fluidly, crossing to stand just an arm's length away from Matt. He glowered up at him in a way that would have been affecting if the guy wasn't being so foolish in his objective.

  
  


Matt swatted away Peter's insignificant fact, seriously panicking now. What if Sylar _did_ wake...? It was doubtful he'd be happy to just shake hands and walk away after what Matt had done to him, that was for sure... “What's your grand plan anyway? You wake him and... you'll kiss and make up? You'll babysit him forever...? Yeah – doubt it.”

  
  


The empath raised his eyebrows in a good attempt at a command, noticeably declining to answer those questions. “Bring him back. Or I will.”

  
  


*

  
  


All senses buzzing, Peter waited with baited breath, tensed and on high alert. He watched as Matt looked around stupidly for a way out of this, came up short and sighed. “C'mon, Peter, I...” He wiped his forehead, looking sheepishly down at the ground, stalling for time. “I... I don't think so –” Then in a flash his eyes snapped up and he plunged mental feelers deep into the depths of Peter's soul.

  
  


But this time Peter had seen it coming and grabbed Matt's arm, drawing the offending ability out and wrapping it around himself protectively before the cop could get a firm hold on his mind. After everything he'd already done, all the people he had already hurt with such an invasive power (not to mention everything he'd experienced himself through it!) Matt was willing to violate Peter even further by brainwashing him?! Unlike Sylar, who had at the very least come here seeking redemption, Matt clearly hadn't learned anything from his past actions. And that was it: the last scrap of hope Peter harboured for the man died, and he couldn't even find the words to express his disappointment. Who would have thought that out of the trio in the room, the cop and family man would be the most contemptible?

  
  


Without even dignifying him with another word, Peter, now armed with the power to save him, turned back to face Sylar's body. He hoped it was the right thing to do, he tried to believe it was for the best, and drew confidence from the memory of Sylar's last phone message and Gabriel's first watch. He was doing it for the fragments of his friend that might still linger inside that shell...

  
  


“Peter, listen to me – listen! You didn't see inside his head! He's going to kill again!” Matt pleaded and Peter stopped before even taking his second step.

  
  


His heartbeat was loud in the dark cavern, and the wet, sticky ground beneath his feet was sickening. Was it true...? Maybe Matt _was_ right, and freeing Sylar was only setting a lion loose once again amongst the gazelles. But what if it was yet another lie, and Peter walked out on Sylar's only chance of rescue?

  
  


Fuck! It was all so conflicting: his moral duty to save an abused victim; his fear of being the one to launch another global catastrophe; his sense of obligation to Sylar, as much as he hated it; his willingness to believe the best in people and to imagine that maybe Matt had done this with the best of intentions... It was difficult to breathe past the mess of his heart and his head battling for dominance within, and slowly Peter's determination was trickling away, leaving him rocking slightly on the spot in indecisiveness.

  
  


“Y-yeah. That's right.” Matt panted, audibly grasping at this thread of uncertainty he'd unravelled. “Just go home. L-let me take care of this. You and me will save the world, Peter. We're getting rid of a wild animal, it's for the greater good – you'll see.”

  
  


At that Peter's throat closed, his chin trembled once and he dropped prickling eyes to the man on the floor up ahead. Sleeping so soundly. Oblivious to this commotion going on around him. Suffering alone in the eternal chambers of his mind...

  
  


He was beautiful. Even sprawled out in a heap. Even splattered in blood. Even though Peter knew it wasn't the same person who he still loved with all his heart. The person who had never given up on him, who'd had more faith in Peter's goodness than the empath had ever experienced before, the person who had died a hero. A _true_ hero, sacrificing himself to save lives – or to save _one_ life, which was more than enough! Heroes don't leave people to rot away forever in a kidnapper's basement, not even their worst enemy.

  
  


Or if they did, for the first time in Peter's life, he didn't want to be a hero anymore.

  
  


*

  
  


“You're lying to me.” A husky accusation came at Matt, and he only realised too late that he'd let his mental guard slip, rendering his mind open and unguarded for precious seconds. He sucked in a breath, suddenly aware of the full implications of what would happen if Peter actually tried...

  
  


The little man launched into a run before Matt could stop him, leaving him to shout desperately and hurry along behind him. “Wait! No! Peter! DON'T – it's not gonna work – you don't understand – you won't get out – PETER!”

  
  


But the ever-stubborn empath ignored him, instead swooping down, pressing a hand to the demon's forehead and giving himself over in a fruitless attempt to rescue the pitiful creature from the hell it deserved. Matt caught up to Peter a second later, wrapped both arms around his chest and hauled him back before he could make the connection... but the little body slumped, limp in Matt's arms. His head fell back against Matt's shoulder and the cop released a shaky breath as he blinked down at the unconscious man: face peaceful now, eyes closed, his spirit flying far away from this realm.

  
  


It was too late. There was nothing he could do. It was out of his hands. This man could never be resuscitated, for if Matt himself couldn't do it then nobody could.

  
  


The telepath dropped to his knees, holding the younger man to him. “...Peter?” He asked quietly, although he knew it was pointless. He shook Peter's chest with one hand but he only swayed with the motion, a dead weight. Holy shit. This was different than getting rid of a killer that nobody would miss. He wouldn't get a commendation for this one. Sure, Peter didn't have many friends, but he did have one infernal shrew of a mother that Matt did _not_ want to piss off. Oh god – if she _ever_ _f_ ound out what had happened...!

  
  


There was no other option. He had to cover it up. Literally. For the sake of preserving his life, his career, and his family...

  
  


Matt sat there for a good few minutes, absent-mindedly squeezing the comatose man in his arms until he scrabbled a frantic plan together. Really, it didn't have to vary that far from his original one, the one he had been working on when his doorbell had chimed...

  
  


Finally, he let Peter slide out of his hold until he too was lying immobile on the bare stone. Then he hauled the killer's form across the floor and into position in the small hollow, not caring that his head banged off the stone rather loudly when he dropped him. Only out of a sense of guilt, Matt then carefully arranged the little man to be side by side with Sylar, so at least they could be together in body as well as mind.

  
  


Whatever those two had had going on between them over the years, the one consistent aspect was that they always found a way back to each other. And now they would lie together, hidden in the depths of this house, for all of time.

  
  


And then Matt went about completing the wall that would bury his secret forever.

  
  


*

  
  


As usual Peter hadn't thought things through properly. He had intended only to open a channel and pull Sylar through. Quick, simple and easy.

  
  


But of course things never turn out the way they're supposed to.

  
  


He didn't mean to go in there after him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh Matt you a**hole! Anyway, sorry for the delay in updating, I really hope the wait was worth it ^.^ Chapter 19 is up now too, so don't forget to read on... X)
> 
> Also, I recently made a drawing for this fic, set around chapter 8 (“If You Don't Jump”), and please go and check it out over on Deviantart! (And don't be afraid to let me know what you think) X) http://thefieryeclipse.deviantart.com/art/If-You-Don-t-Jump-You-ll-Never-Know-If-You-Can-Fly-602894931


	19. Beneath Crimson Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The towering, red brick wall looms tall: a hazy, dark shape at the end of the street...

Silence. No matter how hard he listened, there was no sound in this entire, stagnant world that he didn't make himself. At first Sylar had ran through the gaping, vacant city, searching desperately for anything else that might exist here with him. But it didn't take long for his hope to die.

  
  


He broke into countless empty apartments in search of life to no avail. He screamed and screamed until his throat bled and still he received no answer. He crafted a 'help' sign with library books in the middle of the street, which lay undisturbed and unnoticed for many, many empty days until he couldn't stand looking at it anymore. Nobody was coming to his rescue. Nobody was trying to find him. Nobody cared.

  
  


Time began to blur and sometimes he'd ask himself how he'd come to be here in the first place, but the details continued to evade him no matter how many times he tried to replay them. He'd wanted help though, he remembered. He'd wanted to redeem himself. To prove his feelings for precious little Peter Petrelli: his shining light, his beacon of sanity, the only thing that anchored him to life here when everything else was a mess that he couldn't even begin to fix. However, that chance, slim as it may have been, had been stolen from him before he'd even been able to try.

  
  


Loneliness was the worst torture Sylar could ever have endured. At times the fear crippled him – that he wasn't even alive anymore and had been shut out of both heaven and hell, a outcast in both life and death. Often he was reminded of a fateful night long ago, in a dark forest, after he'd clawed his way free from his own grave. He had wandered through a huge, hostile world then too, lost and confused and terrified until an angel had soared into his world, taken his hand and promised through beautiful, faulty lips that everything was going to be okay...

  
  


But this time there would be no angel. There would be no one. No one at all but the fractured, multi-faceted excuse for a human being that Sylar knew he was. He couldn't stand this nothingness. He needed to see the only face he craved, those bright, hazel eyes, to feel the warmth of that smooth skin once again, even just hear his voice one more time...! Sylar missed his lost hero more than he missed sound, more than temperature, more than air itself! He loved him more and more with each uneventful day, and it was only through the strength of those feelings that he felt confident enough to believe he still existed at all.

  
  


Even if he wasn't really dead, Sylar would live up to his promise and never again do anything to anyone. Even if he'd wanted to, there was nobody in this barren world to do anything to anyway. He was alone here. Abandoned. Forgotten. With nothing but his memories and heartbreak for company. He roamed the city meaninglessly for what felt like years, doomed to an eternal punishment that he couldn't fully resent because deep down he knew he deserved it.

  
  


But then something amazing happened, and he knew this was his moment! A do-over! A chance to make things right! Maybe fate had chosen to take pity on him? Sylar had no clue what he'd done to deserve this gift or how it was even possible, but he would never dare question a miracle.

  
  


On one casual, nondescript day, lost the midst of hundreds of identical ones, the repentant killer's wishes were finally granted. He set off once again into the echoing void, resigned to another lonely day in lonely streets... but this time he _wasn't_ alone. He found _him_.

  
  


And every day became a gift.

  
  


  
  


***

  
  


  
  


“What _is_ it with you and heights...?”

  
  


So this was where he'd ran off to? Sylar's voice rang out too loudly in the deserted cavern. He saw the little shape of Peter jump in surprise and hastily dry his eyes, trying to hide the fact that he was crying. Sylar's stomach jolted in guilt, and suddenly he wished he'd thought up a better ice-breaker and cursed himself for his tactlessness.

  
  


The other man didn't respond further, and so Sylar took the time to look around at the towering shelves and millions of books gathering dust in the many wells of the library. The place smelled musky and old. So realistic... it was the little details like this that sometimes made him want to doubt Peter's insisting that this entire world had been created in Sylar's head by a vengeful Matt Parkman. The scent of ancient volumes and old pages was too perfect, and Sylar wanted to dismiss Matt's artistic skills to replicate such details. Simply because scorn was the only weapon he could wield towards the man who had crafted this prison for him.

  
  


Whichever way he looked at it, there was no denying that the telepath had really sculpted a work of art, albeit a horrific one. Everything was painfully replicated in this nightmare: the vast, uninhabited city stretching off into the horizon, the remnants of the millions of people who should have lived here, even the interior of this specific building – right down to the marble on the fateful grand staircase that sat ominously on the other side of a large, sculpted archway.

  
  


Sylar squinted up again at Peter, just a small shape against glass, perched on a great window ledge high on the wall. It took a moment for him to find his voice again, employing the perfect combination of longing, amusement and just-stating-a-fact. “I didn't know you still came back here.” He mused, and Peter purposely continued to ignore him.

  
  


Rain pattered against the large window, but the paramedic's faked coughs to mask his sniffs weren't lost. Either in sound or meaning. Sylar shifted awkwardly on the spot, unsure what to do with himself. It seemed like a million years ago when he had used to wipe those eyes and comfort Peter until he stopped crying... and now he wasn't even supposed to acknowledge that the man was upset. Sylar's demotion through the ranks affected him almost every minute of every day, but it always hurt the most in moments like this, when all he wanted was to reach out and dry Peter's tears and he wasn't able to.

  
  


“Are you still avoiding me?” He asked stupidly, but at least it finally prompted Peter to turn and face him, even if it was accompanied by a dejected glare that spoke volumes of the man's contempt.

  
  


“Me sitting up here by myself...? Generally means I don't wanna see you.” He stated thickly before turning away again, and Sylar withered under his disdain. He'd almost forgotten just how strong it could be.

  
  


“Listen, about this morning... I'm sorry.”

  
  


“No you're not.”

  
  


This time Sylar fell silent. Well, he _was_ sorry that Peter was crying (he hadn't intended for that) but he wasn't sorry for doing what he'd done. It had only been a small thing, a test to see if Peter still cared while also hoping that maybe, _this time_ , it would actually make him happy... and at least Sylar had his answer. The little man wouldn't have returned to the place he imagined he'd lost Gabriel if he didn't want to be close to him, after all. If only he would realise that he _hadn't_ lost him. Not really.

  
  


Perhaps it hadn't been the most thoughtful way to approach him that morning, even if Sylar's motivations had been pure. But sometimes the silence just got so agonizingly loud that he found himself resorting to his most naively hopeful means for any chance of breaking the tension between them. He didn't do it to be cruel, he just wanted to know that Peter still thought about the beautiful few weeks they'd shared, that short blip in time that somehow transcended all the previous years and the time since. He wanted to know that he still thought about every hour they'd spent together laughing or crying... the way Sylar still did.

  
  


Endless days had stretched on to infinity here in their shared tortured realm, and Sylar had been _so sure_ he was finally getting somewhere with Peter. Recently things had almost returned to a normal co-existence between the pair – or at least they hadn't crossed fists in a long time. It was just companionship, a mutual understanding between himself and Peter that things _were_ slowly progressing. That things didn't have to be exciting or dangerous between them, they just had to be comfortable.

  
  


It had been a while since Peter had last stormed off by himself to cool down, and a while since Sylar had driven him to it. Now he burned with shame, feigning interest in the carved back of a nearby chair so that he had something more to do than just stand there out in the open like this. He was breaking under the awful sensation that he had just taken a considerable step back in their arrangements. It felt excruciatingly like he was barely closer to winning Peter over now than he had been the moment the wonderful little man had first miraculously appeared here to save his soul and sanity.

  
  


He thought he'd progressed from where he'd started in this domain, back when he'd drowned poor Peter with unrelenting attempts to get the guy to notice him at any opportunity. At the beginning he had been adamant that it was destiny: he'd been presented with the perfect situation to convince Peter that he really _wasn't_ the same man who had hurt him in the past. All he wanted was to prove his love.

  
  


But no matter what he'd tried or how many times, the scarred empath had stayed infuriatingly cold. When Sylar had tried reminiscing about their romantic past, he'd earned a punch to the eye; when his unrelenting hunt around the stores had finally paid off and he'd surprised Peter with a re-enactment of their candy-eating afternoon, he'd been pelted with Rocky Roads, Toxic Wastes and furious, devastated glares; and when he'd approached the other man one morning wearing a cardigan and his hair hopefully parted in the centre, Peter had ignored him for two and a half weeks.

  
  


So in desperation he had resorted to the only other way to get attention that he knew of: he had pushed and prodded Peter for any sign of retaliation, even if that retaliation came in the form of fists and punches. Most times it had been Sylar who deliberately chided Peter into the fights, but it had never proved to be that much of a challenge to get him to respond. Violence had never been what he truly wanted, but if he had to choose between that and nothing, of course he would choose the option that brought him closer to the only other person in the world. It was never pleasant but it helped to imagine that with every punch Peter vented on him, the more it lightened the burden in the little man's heart, and the closer he came to forgiveness.

  
  


Eventually, though, Sylar had let up overloading the man with mementos of those old, better times, and had made the tough decision to give him the time he needed to come around on his own. But that time had never ended, and instead they'd settled into this agonizing limbo-state somewhere between ex-enemies and friends. Of course Sylar was grateful for what he had, but it wasn't so much the nightmare world inside his own head that was killing him now rather than the goal he could never reach: the obstinate, exasperating man who he still couldn't help but love with everything he had.

  
  


The punishment of being hated by this person was worse torture even than every second he'd spent here all alone in the time Before Peter, and Sylar didn't think he could take it much longer. In his past life, giving the other man time by himself and then sidling up to apologise had always done it, but that was back when Peter had liked him. Things were different now, and re-hashing that same routine just didn't cut it anymore. Sylar's hope was fading, fraying at the edges, and soon he doubted he'd even be able to keep on going... which was why the time had finally come to make a choice. And, like everything in his battle-scarred life, it wasn't going to be easy.

  
  


Looking up at Peter now: upset, hiding away on an elevated ledge after something Sylar had done, he was reminded vividly of the night before Nathan's funeral when he had found Peter atop the roof of his apartment building. The similarities were striking, except this time there would be no reassuring hand-holding, apologising wouldn't cut it, and there would most definitely not be any kisses exchanged afterwards. It was tempting to draw the comparisons aloud for nostalgia's sake, but he had learned his lesson again for today.

  
  


So instead Sylar finally forced himself to creep closer and set about joining Peter on the windowsill for some company, both for himself and his companion. It was awkward manoeuvring over piles of books and scaling the bookshelf to the ledge, but eventually he scooted into place beside the other person and overlooked the city through the distorted ripples of raindrops on the glass. The smaller man shuffled in deeper towards the window and tensed, but at least he didn't run away again.

  
  


The thing Sylar wanted more than anything else right then was to touch him. Even just to stroke that stray bit of hair across his forehead and out of his wet eyelashes, but he didn't. It was funny, they'd been here for so long now but still Sylar mused over how much Peter's hair had grown over their weeks apart before this nightmare had frozen them in time. The dark, lovely mop was getting messy now, trailing over the collar of Peter's jacket at the back and the front was finally long enough to stay put behind his ear. Of course, when Sylar wasn't allowed to feel it, it only looked more luscious and inviting than ever.

  
  


“Peter...” He spoke softly, earnestly watching the sliver of flushed face that he could see. “I didn't mean to make you cry.”

  
  


“I'm _not_ crying.” Peter huffed, turning his face away further and sniffing forcefully, negating his already transparent lie. Well, it did seem that the tears themselves had stopped now, but all the other signs were there. Sylar's fingers twitched and he was so certain that his hand would accidentally rub Peter's hunched back by itself that he firmly crossed his arms to keep them to himself.

  
  


*

  
  


“It was only breakfast.” Sylar soothed, and the hairs on the back of Peter's neck stood up. “You'd been working away at that thing all night – you needed to eat, I was only trying to look after you.”

  
  


“...Are you _fucking_ kidding me?” Peter scoffed, forgetting about his pink eyes and nose and looking him directly in the face. As if Sylar's actions themselves weren't enough, what made them worse was the way he always failed to take responsibility for them, as if keeping quiet could sustain his deniability.

  
  


“No, I –”

  
  


“I _told_ you not to do that.” Peter muttered bitterly, resting his chin on his raised knees and looking back out at the deadly still and silent city. He knew he should probably be gearing up to kick the guy off the window ledge, but he just couldn't work himself up for a fight like he'd used to in the past. “You think it changes anything? D'you actually think “oh, this time'll do it – this time he's gonna forget about everything and – and we'll live happily ever after”...? You do the same thing over and over, do you really think you're getting somewhere with it?” He shook his head, ducking behind his hair to shield the other man from view. “How many times, Sylar? It won't work. You're _not_ him.” He said aloud, badly needing to convince himself of it once again.

  
  


“...I just... I just don't want you to forget.”

  
  


At this, Peter shook his hair out of his face and narrowed his eyes at Sylar in genuine incredulity. That section of his life was engraved in his memory forever, and he doubted even [René ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ren%C3%A9)and his memory stealing ability would be able to relieve him of it. “You seriously think I could forget?”

  
  


Sylar's gaze fell guiltily, and Peter turned back to the rainy view once again, his sigh fogging up the glass. By now he was used to the way the weather in this place always seemed to mirror the occupants' emotions (more Sylar's than Peter's, probably because it was _his_ head after all). But today's drab and murky rain was Peter's doing. He was sure of it.

  
  


Falling out of love was an art he had never mastered. There was always an imprint of the person left behind in him, no matter how hard he pretended to forget. Moving on in the aftermath of heartache was a battle he had been forced to fight too many times before, but it had never been as difficult as this. He credited that partly to the strength of his feelings towards Gabriel, and partly due to being trapped in a city with a walking, talking, constant reminder of him as his only company.

  
  


Even now, the aroma of Sylar's skin, his clothes, his hair, rolled goosebumps down Peter's spine. He hated the fact that he was addicted to the smell of him, and that sometimes he allowed Sylar to brush up too close to him “accidentally” only so he could close his eyes and lose himself in the familiar touch and scent... if only for a second. No, he was no expert on falling out of love, but he was pretty sure he was taking some backwards steps along the way.

  
  


Sylar insisted he was the same person who Peter had fallen for and trusted, that he wasn't the murderous villain anymore and that he cared for Peter, but it was times like this morning that shattered those lies to hell. Because Peter knew that Gabriel would never have kept pushing him with something if he'd said no – if it was hurting him, haemorrhaging the wound and infecting it before it even got a chance to heal – and Sylar knew he was doing just that. No matter what angle the guy tried to pull now, Peter knew that the scrambled eggs which had been presented to him that morning had been planned with meticulous precision (and against Peter's request never to make them) just to remind him for the millionth time of the person he had lost completely.

  
  


Well... alright, after all this time spent together in this purgatory, Peter had to admit that there were _some_ traces of Gabriel in Sylar. But how could he be sure they were genuine? How could he _really_ be sure Sylar wasn't just wielding those memories for his own purpose? Which seemed the most likely option. No matter what the “reformed” killer insisted, his pleas fell on deaf ears. Or, at least, ears that fought ruthlessly to shut him out. Stripped of the innocence, that hopelessness and naivete that had made Gabriel precious, this person was too sly and cunning to be him. No matter what Sylar himself even seemed to believe, there was a dark streak within him that the gentle watchmaker had never possessed, and Peter just couldn't ignore it.

  
  


But sometimes... sometimes it was ridiculously easy to convince himself he was being too hard on Sylar. After all he was trapped in this hell too, and was clearly having trouble adjusting and accepting it. Peter still hadn't told the man in what state he'd come across his living body in Matt's basement, and the thought still haunted him. He didn't even want to know what the cop had done to _his_ vulnerable body that couldn't heal from a crowbar to the gut. No matter which way he cared to look at it: he was united here with Sylar. And sometimes Peter just didn't have the strength to ignore him anymore. But whenever he would slip and let his guard truly fall, the other man would go and break him all over again – every. Fucking. Time.

  
  


And it was all Peter's own fault. He knew perfectly well what the guy had done and he was _far_ from forgetting it, but thanks to his own foolish addiction to people – he found himself gravitating towards Sylar in the safe, quiet moments when it was almost easy to forget what had transpired between them. He'd latch onto the only other living being in this wasteland, _like_ him even, although he knew it would only hurt in the end. So he had nobody to blame but himself when it inevitably backfired, like today. It wasn't even Sylar's fault: he couldn't help the way he was. It was Peter who set himself up to fall, and he despised the way he kept drifting back to Sylar and _allowing_ himself to be hurt this way.

  
  


Disgust at himself for feeling such things towards his brother's killer, combined with the inability to trust him, had matted into a tangled web of fear and regret that constricted Peter's airway with every breath. Every time he fell a few inches deeper into Sylar, that web only grew, reminding him every second of every day that all he had in this life was that man, and he wouldn't have survived this torture as long as he had without having him there. It was something Peter would never have expected. He couldn't explain it, didn't even want to examine it too thoroughly, but all he knew was that he just couldn't stay away from Sylar for long anymore. Not even for his own health.

  
  


He scowled out the window, watching the rain pattering on the outside windowsill methodically, extremely aware of the too few inches between himself and the subject of his thoughts. He wasn't even that angry about breakfast, just wounded and embarrassed by his own outburst.

  
  


He would've asked Sylar how he had found him here, but wouldn't be too surprised to hear he'd been tracked. Peter had long accepted that wherever he chose to go in this nightmare, Sylar would soon appear. In the early days the guy had been practically suffocating – using any excuse to touch Peter or be close, such as wiping imaginary dust off his shoulders or pretending there was something in his hair just so he could touch it. And more than once Peter had woken in the middle of the night to the sensation of cold air at his back... only to roll over and see a Sylar-shaped indent fading in his mattress.

  
  


Even after withstanding an age in this hell hole, even in this twisted and contorted state, Peter's empathy still burned like a flame within him. He understood that Sylar was desperate, but that hadn't stopped it from being creepy as hell. So after many sleepless nights with a chair blocking the back of his front door, eventually Peter had confronted Sylar about sneaking into his bed, who of course had denied any knowledge about it. But the instances had stopped since then. Slowly the inappropriate stalking had ceased, but now the guy hung around like an intrusive shadow that Peter had ended up just getting used to. He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Neither of them were, no matter how hard Peter tried to deny it.

  
  


“We're never getting outta here are we?” He mumbled, the words bouncing off the window and rebounding on the pair. He chuckled gravelly, so far wound that his perception of humour must have been severely twisted. “Fuck. We're _not_ getting outta here.”

  
  


The words lay thick and spoiled over the endless stretch of forever set out ahead of them, holding Peter back like mud around his ankles. He had to admit that he'd outright failed his valiant attempt to rescue Sylar. His perceived obligation to the man had damned Peter to hell, and it all came down to his stupid compulsion to save the day. It would be easy to blame Sylar for getting him into this mess, or to blame himself for unwittingly getting _Sylar_ into this mess in the first place – but the truth was they were both at fault, and both as much to blame as each other.

  
  


Peter had accepted that, he had, but it never made it any easier to know that he had locked himself out from everything he had ever known only for this pathetic existence.

  
  


*

  
  


“D'you ever just... I dunno, wish for _something_ – _anything_ from back home? I- I just wish I could have something _real_ that just _proves_ _t_ here ever was a world out there... y'know? Sometimes it doesn't feel real... d'you get that too?”

  
  


The glass fogged and cleared from three wistful sighs from Peter before Sylar responded, and when he did it wasn't a taunt or a selfish attempt to dig up a dead past for a sliver of recognition. He didn't even answer Peter's question. Instead this tied quite nicely into the plan he was reluctantly setting into motion, which he chose to take as a sign. Sylar reached into his pocket, his sweaty fingers slipping on the leather strap, and retrieved a watch with a mercifully steady hand.

  
  


“Here...” He prompted gently, braving a tiny glance at Peter while holding it out for him. A dark stain marked the strap, but the blood had washed off the rest of the piece alright. “I had it on me when Matt... y'know. It belongs to you, I don't deserve to keep it.”

  
  


*

  
  


It took a second for Peter to even recognise the thing: it was the watch he'd taken off and thrown at Sylar here in this very library, which felt like so long ago. Right after Gabriel had...

  
  


He took it numbly, as stunned by this simple inanimate object as he would've been to see another living creature out there in the dead streets. Sylar had kept it? All this time...? And why would he just give it back now? To make Peter happy with a trinket from his real life like he'd asked for? A real, live token – proof – that it had really existed once upon a time, that once there had been more than this encompassing nothing...

  
  


The paramedic's stomach squirmed and pressure built behind his eyes far too soon after it had just faded. It must've been because the floodgates were already open, he told himself. Fuck, he was getting too emotional over something as stupid as Sylar listening to his complaint! He tried not to understand what exactly about this gesture had impacted him the most, but it was there in the forefront of his mind, clear as day and impossible to dismiss.

  
  


Maybe... _possibly_... he couldn't ignore the thoughtfulness of what Sylar had just done. It was something so out of character of the old mass-murderer who got off humiliating his victims before ripping their heads open. Instead it shone of the man, fresh into the world, who had attempted to cook breakfast in thanks for being rescued from Baltimore without even knowing how to scramble an egg... Perhaps it was also because (despite all the time in this prison that he'd witnessed Sylar hunched over his workbench for hours on end) clocks and watches would always remind Peter of Gabriel.

  
  


The lost man felt hauntingly close in that moment, just outside of Peter's reach behind those soulful, nervous eyes. It was so cruel a tease, igniting a frail spark of hope that maybe with a little effort, Peter could really get to him...? But then, that was probably the whole plan, he reasoned, just an epilogue to that morning's event. He shrugged his way out of idle dreams and fatalistic optimism, pulling himself back together. With great difficulty.

  
  


“Thanks.” He said with a faint smile. Even if he _was_ only Sylar and nobody more, Peter still appreciated the gesture.

  
  


He twiddled the watch in his fingers, heavy with the violence, loss and tears it had absorbed back on the fateful night he had last seen it. He noted the stain of his own blood upon it, shed by this very man who was now within an arm's reach away and offering him this comfort from home. “Why would you give it back?” He asked through groggy lips that almost slurred his words. Most likely he was only setting himself up, but he couldn't help but allow affection to blossom to life in his chest all over again...

  
  


The other man, the killer, the monster, the only other person in existence, blinked sympathetically at Peter as if he were a simple little creature that didn't understand the world. “Because it's one of your favourites... and I want you to have it with you when you leave.”

  
  


Peter's tentative hope retreated. So it had just been a taunt, an opportunity to get his hopes up and then hammer the nails in further. “Right. Whatever.” He puffed, tearing his attention from Sylar and purposely hiding any expression from his face. Irritation tickled him now, again at himself and again at Sylar for taking the chance to hit the point home that Peter's ceaseless attempts to break down the wall of this realm were pointless.

  
  


“I'm serious, Peter.”

  
  


*

  
  


Well, it hadn't really been the epic, emotional gesture Sylar had hoped for, but he also had known better than to expect it. Besides, maybe he should be thankful for this calm respite before knowingly shooting himself in the foot?

  
  


“...I think... I think it's my fault that that the wall hasn't broken.” He breathed, watching intently as Peter's forehead twitched in a way that telegraphed that he couldn't be bothered listening. Apparently he hadn't meant to open a conversation with his spoken longing for the real world, but a conversation was what he was going to get. “Actually, I _know_ it is.” Even if Sylar would rather postpone this indefinitely, he knew things had to change. He was a hypocrite, the worst of the worst, trying to convince Peter that he would never do anything to harm him anymore when he _was_ harming him, in arguably the worst way possible.

  
  


Burying his nerves, Sylar spoke steadily. “I don't _want_ to get out of here.” He confessed quietly, observing Peter for every single twitch of a reaction.

  
  


The empath met his eyes then, squinting as if he misheard. If Sylar wanted to back out, now would be his last chance. But he didn't. It was beyond time for this, it wasn't fair on either of them to let things continue in this mutilated, strained excuse of an association. It wasn't fair to hold Peter back from the life that the part of Sylar once called Gabriel had sacrificed himself to provide.

  
  


Peter's brow furrowed, as if he couldn't quite make sense of something so absurd. “Wh-what're you talking about?”

  
  


“I don't want to leave. And I don't want _you_ to leave either.” Sylar stated simply, sorrowfully. Since his two personalities had combined he'd thankfully had much more success handling which emotions broke the surface and which only eroded him on the inside, and he chose to keep the screaming, sobbing torment tucked away as tightly as he could for now. “Don't you remember, Peter? This is everything I ever wanted: you and me, alone, forever...”

  
  


Swallowing past a lump in his throat, Sylar watched as his words trickled over Peter's face and truly sank in. Hazel eyes blazed and his lopsided mouth fell open as he struggled to comprehend what he was hearing. It would hurt him, but this couldn't wait any longer. Sylar would hurt him one more time in order to ensure it _was_ the last time.

  
  


*

  
  


“I... I think that's why Matt trapped me here. He gave me everything... except you. That's my worst nightmare.”

  
  


The way he just... said it, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, pulled the rug out from under Peter. _'Don't you remember...?', 'You and me...'_ Of course he remembered: the cold tiles of the bathroom beneath him, the steam clearing from a shared shower, looking into _Gabriel's_ eyes as he confessed his biggest dream. The dream that had now been salvaged from within _this_ man and realised by a telepathic artist.

  
  


“And then you arrived, and I really thought that everything was going to be alright, but...” Sylar dipped his head, a humble nod. “Well, you know how _that_ _t_ urned out.”

  
  


Peter meant to reply, but he couldn't get past a strangled gasp that was supposed to be an intelligent sentence. _No_... because that would mean...

  
  


“I've known it for a while.” Sylar continued, as if he wasn't inflicting bodily pain on Peter with every new revelation. “I'm the reason we can't get out. Because I, I suppose I hoped that if you just had _time_ , then... you might learn to love me again.”

  
  


Knocked speechless, wounded, Peter was unable to do anything but stare as he struggled to grasp the full reality of the situation. The other man's shoulders rose to his ears, but he was impossibly calm after dropping such a bombshell. Sylar's 'worst nightmare'... which meant it had to be _true_ , because Matt wouldn't have chosen to manipulate this particular fantasy if it wasn't going to suitably punish Sylar...

  
  


Or... could it really be...? _Gabriel_...?

  
  


But no. No. It was too much, too much to handle, that was a whole other canyon that Peter wasn't ready to dive into at the moment! He shoved the creeping realisation away, unable to handle the implications, no matter what that confession threatened to expose. Just then the rest of the full impact of the statement hit home and Peter was rescued from the violent, overwhelming tide. Instead, fury coursed over him properly for the first time that day, hot and sticky and reckless.

  
  


*

  
  


“...You kept me _trapped_ here all this time? Every day...? _On purpose_?!” The empath started to tremble and the glass began steaming up just inches from his flushing face. “You – you watched me work at that fucking wall _every day_ , Sylar! _Every_ day! And – and you – I mean you _really_...?! All this... to make me _love you?!_ ”

  
  


Sylar shivered at the sound of Peter's voice ricocheting around the chamber, his anguish amplified ten times over and stabbing ten times deeper. A lesser man would have crumpled under it, but Sylar was far too familiar with pain to let it best him just yet. He kept his gaze steady on the other man's face, his poor, stressed out face, and accepted the brunt of his deserved row.

  
  


“What the hell has all this been to you?! Huh?! A sick game?! A test to see how long it'll take before I finally crack and go crazy...? You keep saying you “love me” but – if, I mean, if that's even _true_ – how could you _do_ _t_ his to me?!” Peter's voice strained and he bit his lip so hard it would likely bruise.

  
  


“It's not a game.”

  
  


“So, what then...? You're just gonna keep me caged here _f_ _orever_?!” Peter yelped, recoiling as much as he could on his narrow perch, wobbling dangerously.

  
  


“No.” Sylar breathed, smiling sadly into his companion's dumbstruck, horrified expression. Oh, Peter, never the quickest on the uptake. It ached having to do this to him, but the right decision was never going to be the easy one, and he had to let the man move forward now. Heaving out a breath, taut and shaky but still surprisingly composed, even to his own ears, Sylar sealed his own fate. What was that old adage? _If you really love someone_... “If you truly want to leave... I'll let you go.”

  
  


His only answer was silent, reproachful eyes and the sight of Peter's hair fluttering in front of his face with every heaving breath.

  
  


“I thought this would be best for us. That we'd be better here, together, than anywhere else. Free from distractions, free to work out all our mistakes... But now I see I was wrong.” It was the last thing Sylar had ever thought he'd say, but it was time to face the facts. Keeping Peter close in hopes of wooing him over again hadn't worked, it had only served to hurt the little man who Sylar only wanted to protect.

  
  


He was grudgingly forced to admit that he was fighting an uphill battle and that he'd been running backwards the entire time. He couldn't ignore it any longer, cling to it in denial, thinking that each morning might be the dawn of the day that Peter returned his love. No matter how much it wrecked Sylar, he had to give him up.

  
  


*

  
  


“I don't want to keep you prisoner like this any longer, Peter. ...I only want you to be happy.”

  
  


Reeling, Peter couldn't focus on anything besides the other man's face and the words escaping his lips. Everything else was stripped away until he couldn't even make himself think things over. He couldn't concentrate, he couldn't dwell on _why_ Sylar had chosen to say those things now, just that he _was_ saying them. It was so bizarre that he just couldn't escape the nasty thought that it was all another mind game. He didn't dare believe it. If it was a prank it was surely one of the cruellest Sylar had pulled in this dream – to dangle freedom right out of his reach and then whip it away at the last second...

  
  


“You'll let us out? ...For real...?” All those endless days, all that nothingness... could it really be over for good...?

  
  


But Sylar shook his head and bit his lips together timidly, in such a reminiscent way that a static shock ran down Peter's spine and he slammed the door closed on the surge of emotions that threatened to betray him. “No. I'll let _you_ out. There's nothing for me out there, no one's waiting for me back home, no one will miss me... I'm better off in here.”

  
  


Peter knew there was probably so much he should say to that. Maybe deny it and say that _he_ would miss him out there after spending all this time alone together? Even if he wasn't quite sure why that was true or if it even should be. Maybe he should yell the guy's statement back in his face and leave him here to rot alone until the end of time with his actions and regrets? Whatever the decision, making one was better than nothing at all, yet somehow Peter couldn't quite assemble all the pieces of this impossible puzzle in order to form a coherent thought.

  
  


*

  
  


Sylar had spent the entirety of the conversation expecting to be beaten to a pulp, or at the very least thrown clean off the windowsill. But instead it was almost like someone had pressed the pause button on the empath who was staring wordlessly, head tilted like a confused puppy with a look of utter shock painted across his features. His face was twitching, caught in a harrowing battle between anger and distress, and he didn't show any sign of breaking that rhythm anytime soon. Patiently, Sylar endured the scrutiny and even averted his gaze back out the window to give Peter privacy to come up with his response. At least, Sylar assumed there was to be a response, after all he'd just bared his soul and the rancid black mark dehumanizing it.

  
  


He had long gotten used to the deafening silence of this dream expanse, but right then he was acutely aware of every laboured breath that slipped between Peter's lips. It was impossible to discern the man's thinking and this piercing stalemate between possible reactions was crushing. Sylar should have braced himself for a brutal goodbye, an awful finale to the fucked-up dance they had performed together since the first time they'd met.

  
  


But whereas he could withstand the agony of bullets, fire, ancient samurai swords and death itself... he couldn't stand to watch this man walk away from him for the last time. He couldn't bear saying his final goodbye.

  
  


“You're just... gonna _stay_ here?” Peter whispered, and Sylar stored that molten sound safely away in perfect condition and cherished it. If it was to be the last time he heard that voice, at least it did it justice: tenacity laced with compassion, deep, rusty and gentle, so gentle, and it kissed a river of goosebumps over Sylar's body.

  
  


*

  
  


“Yes. But I won't hold you back any longer.” Sylar said, barely moving his lips. Peter didn't need to hear it again but his throat compressed just at the ludicrous prospect. “You're free.”

  
  


The empath flinched at the simplicity of it, still groggy after absorbing so much new information at once. He wasn't big enough to reach all the way around this change in perception that was blocking his way, and was still throbbing with the anguish of the 'breakfast' that morning, the uncertainty over _'Sylar's'_ worst nightmare, and the betrayal of finding out why he hadn't been able to escape this realm. Until now.

  
  


He was bound by indecision, by contrasting parts of him that ravaged within his heart and words that were too thick to regurgitate into the open. But before he could even say or do anything, Sylar's tentative hand reached over and stroked his knee: a small, affectionate gesture dripping with finality. Then the man untangled his long limbs, descended the bookcase and traipsed out of sight between the towers of books without looking back. And Peter couldn't even try to stop him.

  
  


*

  
  


He had about thirty seconds or so before he would be out of range of the love of his life, and Sylar spent every single one warring with himself over running right back and begging him to stay, or for once doing the unarguably right thing and letting him leave this world – and Sylar – behind for good. Every footstep that took him further from Peter crushed Sylar's patchwork soul further and he felt the very last strings of his heart snap one by one.

  
  


But still he remained silent. Still he continued walking.

  
  


The only things he took with him were the tingle on his palm from his last touch, the void in his spirit as he left a chunk of it behind, and the last, searing image he would ever have of his beautiful Peter Petrelli.

  
  


*

  
  


Rain tapped around Peter as he splashed down the streets, water washing over the road in waves until the ground glistened and the air hung thick and damp. His feet carried him automatically, treading a well-worn path through the city. Eerie steps and raindrops echoed off the empty shells of the buildings that should have been homes but instead were as barren as the rest of this world. He weaved his way far from the library, sure he could somehow feel Sylar's eyes on him, and ignored the cold water trickling down his face and collar. This time it was difficult to tell where the weather got its muse from, but Peter didn't want to think of why that was. He only picked up his pace as he got nearer to the alley that housed the grand wall barricading him from the rest of his life.

  
  


His _l_ _ife!_ Sound! _Other people!_ Such concepts that didn't exist here were only a layer of brick and cement away! It should have been the only thing that Peter was thinking as he turned his back on this nightmare for the final time... but how could he possibly dwell on anything other than the man he was about to walk out on? The one who had just walked out on _him_ without so much as a farewell?

  
  


With anger pumping through his veins, he thought over the full implications of Sylar's confession for the dozenth time since leaving the library. His mind whirred in a constant cycle, a wheel that never stopped spinning: Sylar loved him, it wasn't a game, it wasn't a prank... he must _really_ love him enough that his worst nightmare consisted of a world where Peter didn't exist; but Sylar had trapped him here against his will for all this time! Just a prisoner held captive, nothing more than a pet in a cage; and Sylar had killed Nathan! Killed Gabriel! Killed Peter's father, his friends and countless other people amongst other atrocities and he had _n_ _o_ _right_ to make Peter feel guilty for leaving him behind...; but Sylar loved him, loved him enough to let him go...; but then again he'd kept him prisoner in the first place for his own selfish reasons...! On and on it went and it never became any easier to untangle.

  
  


It was enough to make Peter's skull ache and his vision blur, but he didn't resist even one step towards freedom even though he was certain he was about to throw up at any second. He should be furious, it should be repulsive even sparing a mere thought towards the person who had wrecked every aspect of his existence, and he should surely be crazy for even _considering_ hesitating before getting his life back. It was Sylar! _Sylar!_ It wasn't like Peter was leaving a harmless, innocent person behind... and he _wasn't_ even leaving him behind! Sylar had _chosen_ to stay here, he could escape any time he wanted – he'd basically said as much!

  
  


Around the next corner, the towering red brick wall loomed towards Peter at the end of the street and he broke into a run. It stood tall: a hazy, dark shape that was made even more foreboding through the grey sheets of rain. He was so close! Finally! There was no reason to stop, nothing he _should_ miss once he got out of here. And in fact, who's to say he even _would_ get out of here...? For all he knew, this could always be another of Sylar's bullshit tricks to give him hope and then close the gate at the last second, laughing and watching as Peter scrabbled at the closed seams with his fingernails!

  
  


How was he to believe a single word Sylar said?! Just like everyone else in Peter's life – the man had lied to him and kept vital information out of his reach. He'd _lied_ about wanting to leave: those rare times he'd helped Peter hammer the wall had clearly all been for show, and now the paramedic was burning with embarrassment at how he'd been played this entire time by that lying son of a bitch who had even gotten Peter to _care_ _about_ him...!

  
  


Then again, there was the existence of this entire world to counter that instinct: _Gabriel's_ worst nightmare that Sylar hadn't known Peter would ever see, the one that Matt had stolen from the depths of his soul to hurt him with more than anything else could.

  
  


Peter scooped up his discarded sledgehammer and sprinted through puddles across the rest of the distance towards the wall. Holding his breath, gritting his teeth, he hurled the thing back with all the strength he possessed... then wavered. Soaked and shaking, he exhaled a trembling gasp, rooted to the spot and feeling icy droplets of water roll up his sleeves.

  
  


Slowly, he dropped his arms and let the handle of the hammer slide from slack fingers. It _clunked_ onto the road with a loud splash, a decisive full stop to his aborted mission.

  
  


Strange... how something so silly could mean so much. The offending scrambled eggs from that morning were still scattered over the ground amongst two broken plates and two sets of cutlery, and Peter just couldn't leave them. Yes, the eggs. He couldn't leave the eggs. That now sodden and mushy gesture of goodwill, of affection, of hopeful manipulation on Sylar's part... the aspiration behind which Peter could no longer write off.

  
  


The tantalising prospect of the real world was still within his grasp... but what did he really have to go back to anyway? He had been so intent on escaping all this time because this close proximity to Sylar (and, yes, to the possible remnants of Gabriel) had terrified him for what it might do to him, but now that he had actually reached the goal he had been unrelentingly fighting for... he didn't even recognise it. What _did_ he have worth fighting for? An empty apartment, a job that he poured his soul into and received nothing in return for his efforts, a mother who he couldn't bring himself to forgive yet also couldn't stay angry with either, no friends, no purpose...

  
  


The only thing he truly wanted was the only other thing here with him.

  
  


Weak legs carried him to the wall and Peter slumped against it, resting his head back against the brick and letting the rain cool his burning cheeks. Laboured breathing sounded out loudly in the otherwise deserted street, but for once Peter praised the isolation so he could break down like this in private. It wasn't even that he was overcome with the urge to cry or scream or hit anything. Instead, an unfamiliar wave of clarity soothed across him like a veil, opening his eyes to the truths that he had purposely hidden from himself and that now refused to be ignored any longer.

  
  


It was only because he was scared to fall, scared to give himself over so vulnerably and get trampled on yet again... this defensiveness, this reluctance to believe Sylar's argument all stemmed from the most phoney of sources: he didn't hate the man – he cared too much for him. He had for a long time. And now... now he was literally _standing_ in the most raw, honest proof of Sylar's genuine affections, and that old web of self-loathing and regret in his chest was drifting away into a million harmless, tiny pieces.

  
  


The wall was solid and cold at his back, the final hurdle, and Peter curled his fingers weakly over the unyielding surface. It was maddening to know that one more hit with the sledgehammer would break it down, the millionth and one. He had wished for this moment, prayed for it and done his best to bring it to fruition. Who would've thought that after all of that... he didn't want to leave here alone? He physically couldn't make himself do it. If he left, he'd most likely never see Sylar ever again. How could he run away from _that_ man like this without even trying to resolve things after all they'd been through together...?!

  
  


Closing his eyes, Peter blocked out the street and instead a familiar face swam before him: two monumental people from his past merged into one, the Lover and the Fighter. He couldn't hide it any longer: the very man who used to be his arch nemesis; his best friend; the person who had killed him more than once and yet also given him a reason to live; the most intense, complicated man Peter had ever met; the closest anyone had ever come to understanding him; the only person he'd known to have felt so much emotion toward him (be it hate or love)... was the only person he ever wanted to be with.

  
  


Peter couldn't deny it even to himself anymore: it wasn't an act – Sylar was genuine. Gabriel was genuine. He wasn't lost, he wasn't gone – those parts of him that Peter had seen but refused to let himself believe, they _were_ him all along. He was finally ready to accept that now. The other parts of the ex-killer, they were there too, but softened at the edges and stirred through with his new mentality and Peter couldn't make himself hate the man anymore.

  
  


All Sylar wanted was to be loved, he'd made that quite clear; all Peter wanted was to be complete, and now the only thing holding him back was himself. He couldn't keep living this way, this cold, miserable shell of a human being was not who he wanted to be – to love was his strength, it was all he had, and without it Peter was nothing. Forgiveness was the only way forward, and he knew he was the only one who could take the next step in initiating that change.

  
  


So without a backwards glance at the wall that had tormented him endlessly, he ran back the way he'd come so fast that his chest ripped apart with a stitch and his legs burned. He let his emotions fly with him, keeping him moving.

  
  


First he returned to the library, but of course the place was empty. So he took to the streets, calling out for Sylar and running around and around the vacant city until the rain ran itself dry and the dark clouds diluted above him. Sylar wasn't in his apartment. He wasn't in Peter's apartment. At the park, or the book store, or any of his usual hang outs.

  
  


Evening had eclipsed the afternoon hours before Peter's hope began to fade and the certainty in himself and in Sylar began to leak away. Exhausted after unsuccessfully searching a dead city, throat raw from his unanswered yells, the doubt began to creep in at last. Perhaps Sylar had gone and left him here alone forever...?

  
  


Just as he was beginning to truly believe his insecurities, he stumbled into a beam of bright light – the sunset blinding him through the silhouettes of the surrounding buildings. He squinted past his fingers, heart leaping into his mouth as he set eyes on the heavy, low sky: a magnificent scarlet rivalled only by one other night that stood out in Peter's memory.

  
  


And suddenly he knew where to go.

  
  


*

  
  


Sylar looked forlornly out at the distant skyline. A mismatched jumble of real world counterparts stolen and spliced together to create a collage of a city, not that different from the many disjointed parts of Sylar that made up his being. Well, this place _did_ belong to him after all. It only made sense that it was as unique, abnormal and abandoned as he was.

  
  


He hadn't been back here at all in this dream world, not even in the time he'd lived here by himself. The Brooklyn Bridge was far out of his way and packed with too many memories that he hadn't been brave enough to tackle until now. This platform felt like a holy place, the spot he had treasured when somebody loved him, and so far it had remained untouched in hopes of preserving the magic. Even though Sylar had to climb the ladder instead of flying here this time, and even though he was all alone and felt more isolated than he ever had before (if that was even possible), the setting was as stunning now as it had been then.

  
  


Tonight he needed to taint this sanctuary because he needed to remember Peter. To remember how much he loved him in order to be strong enough to set him free.

  
  


… _I_ _f they return to you, they're yours; if they don't, they never were_...

  
  


Sylar sniffled and wiped his streaming nose, looking out over the water through wet eyes. Peter was probably long gone by now. The prospect of the rest of forever here alone almost killed this undying man, but at least he knew that Peter would have a life. A real one, not one in here formed under Sylar's limited, selfish boundaries. It was the right choice, and he still stood by it, even though he was certain he was simply going to erode away here, alone, in this utter hell of Matt Parkman's creation.

  
  


Without Peter, without a goal to strive for... what was left? Merely the twisted remains of a shattered heart, the last ashes of a once great fire smouldering out and leaving behind nothing but burn marks and the scorched smell of desire. Sylar could practically see the smoke of everything he cared about going up in flames. And he only watched it burn.

  
  


Then a sound – something simultaneously terrifying and amazing, because he hadn't made it himself – caught Sylar's attention. He froze, confounded, and told himself he'd only imagined it... but then there it was again: a distinct pang of metal. And again, and again, until there was the loudest noise yet and the hatch to the platform grated open. Sylar actually jumped back in shock, gripping the rusty railing painfully tight and unable to believe his eyes. The vision swam before him: Peter Petrelli climbing the remaining few rungs of the ladder and clambering onto the small platform to stand, breathtaking and defiant, only a few steps away.

  
  


He had never looked so wonderful, purely because Sylar had never thought he'd see him again. But there he was: dishevelled, fidgety and out of breath, but overall – burning with purpose. Sylar gaped unapologetically at him, wondering wildly if his mind was playing tricks on him and if this apparition was going to turn into some other part of his punishment. But every detail about the little man sang of truth so perfectly. And Sylar wanted more than anything to believe it.

  
  


When he took in the sight of Peter's flushed face, messy hair and the determined set of his jaw, the initial amazement fizzled into apprehension and guilt. Maybe it wasn't what he had thought. Perhaps the man had come here to say goodbye to this place and hadn't expected to be interrupted? He couldn't blame Peter for being annoyed that someone else had intruded on his private spot with Gabriel – where they had fallen in love – and prepared himself to be thrown over the side of the bridge.

  
  


Both men waited for the other to bend first, with the seconds trailing past and only the slightest breeze filling the air between them. The empath continued to shift on the spot in indecisiveness, balling his fists over and over, rocking on his feet and all the while splitting Sylar in half with the intensity of his dazzling gaze.

  
  


Finally Sylar licked his dry lips and cleared his throat. He hastily gathered the scraps of his resolve that had been blown away by this unexpected arrival, and wiped his sleeve over his face in a weak attempt to clean away his lingering tears. “I – I just -”

  
  


“Don't.” Peter whispered and Sylar fell silent, waiting anxiously for something, anything, to shatter the tension. The little man's chest was heaving and a blush was blooming across his face, far too delayed to be from the climb.

  
  


*

  
  


Now that Peter was no longer only thinking about it, and was actually standing looking into Sylar's tear-streaked face, it was all suddenly so real. Everything he felt, everything that had happened, and it was so much harder to keep it together than it had been on the way over. He'd barged in on the guy's private, emotional moment in this special place. Even though he hadn't said it aloud before, here was Sylar now, saying goodbye to Peter in his own, tearful way after all. And it broke this empath's heart.

  
  


So many emotions were fighting to dominate him, clambering over each other and overwhelming him all at once. His blood was rushing painfully through his veins, pins and needles had destroyed his limbs and his voice had deserted him in his hour of need. But he could make do without for now.

  
  


Sylar's mouth trembled as if to speak. “I –”

  
  


“Just... just don't say anything...” Peter croaked. Swept up in a whirlwind of fear and exhilaration, he charged at Sylar, capturing his lips in a fiery, needy kiss that sent shivers burning over every inch of his skin.

  
  


*

  
  


This was the very _last_ thing he'd been expecting, and at first Sylar just stood there stupidly, struck dumb. The feeling of those soft, hot lips suckling his own was electrifying, the sensation brought him to life and he couldn't _believe_ he had actually forgotten what Peter felt like, what he tasted like! Their last kiss had been the one he'd stolen in the library to resurrect him, and it felt impossibly long ago now.

  
  


Far too late, Sylar properly came to his senses and clung to the tense little body pressed to his front. Starved to death, he drank him up as if this were both the very first and last time he'd ever be able to. Every sense was wonderfully rubbed raw by this smouldering creature, although it didn't make sense! What did this mean? Was he forgiven? Why had Peter stayed? There was so much that needed considering but Sylar couldn't possibly care right then.

  
  


Then it all stopped as abruptly as it had started, and Sylar was hauled down by the front of his shirt, looking into Peter's swirling eyes. “ _Why did you do it?!_ ” The man pleaded through gritted teeth, voice raspy and incensed.

  
  


Dazed from so much happening so fast, Sylar struggled to locate the will to reply. Apparently Peter had gone from fight-ready to passionate to tortured in the span of about ten seconds, and Sylar couldn't wrap his head around it just yet. “What do you mean? _You_ came at _me_.” He panted, savouring the unique, exquisite taste still coating his mouth.

  
  


“No!” The hold on his shirt vanished and Peter backed away far enough that Sylar could see his broken stance and his hands trembling by his sides. “Why'd you _leave_ me...? Back – before! Before all this, in the library, in the real world?! I asked you not to go – I _begged_ you not to! But you went and did it anyway!” The look on his face was enough to shatter Sylar, but it was his words, his glorious, marvellous words that really did it.

  
  


He sucked in a breath, feeling every nerve ending ignite as he finally understood that his biggest wish had been granted... Peter _believed_ him. Peter _cared_.

  
  


“You already know why.” He exhaled, frantically trying to assemble any semblance of composure to his appearance, but really everything was drifting away into cosy clouds of light inside until he was rendered nothing but a giddy mess.

  
  


It would be so inappropriate to beam delightedly in the face of Peter's anguish, so he held in the urge with all his might. How had this happened? What had finally changed his mind? For some reason since they'd last spoken Peter had accepted everything Sylar had been desperately throwing at him this whole time! Like hot air heating him from head to toe, Sylar glowed from the kiss, from the change in Peter, and because the man hadn't left him when he'd had the perfect chance to. Sylar had set him free, but Peter had returned of his own accord.

  
  


This forgotten emotion, happiness, was so intense that even though the empath was physically wracked with tremors right before him and spilling confusing distress into the air, pricklings of guilt and sorrow couldn't dim the light blazing to life inside Sylar's rejuvenated soul.

  
  


  
  


*

  
  


“I did what was best for you.” Sylar purred consolingly, and Peter burned all over with renewed distress. He _still_ didn't even get it! Perhaps Peter shouldn't have kissed him yet, it had been dangerous, and even now he yearned so badly to do it again and forget about everything else... but this was important. He needed to get this out before he lost the nerve to do so.

  
  


“No! You did what _you_ thought was best for me!” He hissed, jabbing a shaking finger at the most important person in his life. “But it was _you_. I wanted _you_ , and you left me alone when I needed you most!”

  
  


*

  
  


This unearthed truth seeped slowly over Sylar and he took it in, seeing the unfamiliar part of the picture for the first time. Suddenly the smaller man's switch in emotion was so much easier to understand, and Sylar's ecstasy was overridden by hollowing shame settling in his gut. “I didn't want you to hurt, I was only trying to save you.” He said thickly, acutely aware that he didn't hold the right cards for this particular match. He was without, for this was an angle he had never really dwelled upon before. For all his insisting that he wasn't cold and heartless anymore, he sure felt close to it now.

  
  


“'Save me'? By taking away the only thing left that actually _mattered_ in my life?!” Peter looked so small, aggrieved and vulnerable in that second. An irresistible impulse to hold him broke through Sylar, and it took everything he had not to do it. Peter was visibly screaming on the inside, but his voice had barely risen enough to be considered shouting. Even in a moment such as this, the self-conscious man was holding back and suffering his full anguish alone while only letting a sliver of it out.

  
  


Humbled, Sylar stammered. “I'm, I'm sorry -”

  
  


“D'you know how much I _missed_ you...?” It was then that the little Petrelli's poise fractured and his face half crumpled before he wrestled back a convulsive gasp, putting his almost composed but still wounded mask back on display. It was only a brief flicker of weakness, but enough for Sylar to give in and haul Peter forward into his arms.

  
  


He held on tightly, trying to soothe him, to comfort him, to hug him, but the man writhed and squirmed his way free. “D'you know how much I _hated_ you for leaving me?” He bit out the words obscenely softly for such a blow to the heart, and tipped his chin up in defiance of his bleeding soul.

  
  


The last dregs of Sylar's delirium from the kiss drained away. ' _Hated_ '... “I wronged you, I know. By leaving, by setting up the situation in the first place and I'm sorry. I really am! How many times can I say sorry? It kills me that I ruined everything between us –”

  
  


“I know you did what you thought you had to. I get it – what was done to you was _wrong_ , Sylar. Nobody deserves to be ripped apart like you were.” Peter said lowly, his eyebrows twitching up and down his forehead in an equal battle of remorse and anger, and any second now Sylar expected him to burst into tears. “But why did you do it _that way_? You didn't have to be so cruel about it.”

  
  


Flashes of meticulous planning, of haunting nightmares, of rejoicing in asserting his dominance, of fearing the looming curtain call whipped through Sylar's mind all at once and he bit his lip and nodded. “I know.” He whispered, sickened by how much he'd enjoyed the game of playing kidnapper at the time.

  
  


“And you said you... you thought you were doing what was best for my future...?” Peter swallowed, probably biting his tongue in half with the force he was chewing it. “But that should've been _my_ choice. You did it against my will, you took away my _right_ , and I had no say in it!”

  
  


His lovely face tightened and his grief finally broke through in the form of a broken voice. “But, somehow...” He sniffed and a tear tricked down his cheek to his lips, the lower one off kilter as if only to stab another wound through Sylar's heart. Another small, choking gasp escaped him, muted against the back of Peter's hand as he attempted to hide his breakdown.

  
  


Then he released a hoarse whisper that sang to Sylar like angel voices. Lyrics he'd never thought would come his way again. “Somehow... even though everything's different, and even though it won't be the same... I can't make myself get over you! I-I still wanna be _with_ you! I _love_ you!”

  
  


*

  
  


This time when warm, sturdy arms pulled Peter into a hug he didn't dare pull away. Just let himself be rocked by a body that felt just the same as it used to, smelled just the same, the way it had in tender moments between lovers, between friends. Now shaking during the transition from anger to acceptance, Peter stood and suffered through part of him wanting to continue his rant and the other wanting nothing more than to stay this way until this immortal dream that would never end came to a close.

  
  


There was still more that he wanted to say but he couldn't work up the strength. He was too exhausted after _years_ of conflict boiling down to this minute. There was so much history that needed to be addressed, ground rules that should probably be set, but simply the rare feeling of a loving embrace was enough to peel away the bitterness and erosion that had hardened this sensitive man's sensitive soul. He needed affection more than he needed air to breathe, and sucked it in deeply now after suffocating for so long. All Peter wanted in this moment was to feel Sylar's heartbeat racing in tandem with his own, the two organs, the cores of their separate beings, reunited.

  
  


He was safe here. He was loved. Wrapped up in this person who's entire world literally revolved around him – only a fool would dare endanger this situation. And for the first time in his life, Peter was not going to be that fool.

  
  


“I'll never leave you again, Peter, I promise! We can be together now, there's nothing pulling us apart anymore. Trust me, I swear I'll never let go of you again...” Sylar murmured into Peter's hair, following it up with a tiny press of lips. A motion so slight yet so swaddled in familiarity. “Do you believe me?”

  
  


Peter sniffed again, dried his eyes, nodded and cuddled in deeper to the taller man's neck, breathing in the scent of his skin without a trace of guilt this time for loving it so much. “Yeah.” An unfamiliar sensation tugged at his lips. A smile, just tiny, but miraculous. “Yeah I do.” Delicate, tender heat burst within him, golden shafts of light shining through the many wounds and scars like a stained glass window, and every pane related back to this man in some form or other. Somehow it always came back to Sylar. Gabriel. The beautiful concoction of both of those men who Peter was here with now.

  
  


It was terrifying, of course it was. Offering himself up like this at the full mercy of this particular man was far from a safe decision – going by history alone, there was more than enough foundation to worry. But then, Peter Petrelli had never been the type of man to run away from danger to save himself, and he wasn't about to start now.

  
  


*

  
  


Taking full advantage of these new, unrestricted boundaries, Sylar pulled back, cupping Peter's face with two searing hands, stunned at just being able to do so again. He finally ran his fingers through the soft, dark lock of hair covering the man's eye and tucked it behind his ear as gracefully as if it were a priceless treasure. Which it was, _he_ was, which the life-ban of touching him being lifted was – they were all treasures that Sylar doubted a lifetime of immortality could ever enhance or out-do.

  
  


He murmured hurriedly, breathlessly, just a hair's breadth away from those perfectly broken lips. “I love you too, Peter, I love you, I promise, I'll never hurt you again, never again, I promise, I love you so much...”

  
  


Peter's mouth brushed Sylar's ever so lightly, but it was just a nervous twitch of lips, not a kiss. A wonderful hint of a smile, relieved, gorgeous, infectious, but held back as if he wouldn't let himself give in to it just yet. Peter didn't reply, he didn't sing that glorious song again, but the tiniest puff of breath that heated Sylar's skin was enough – he knew that the man _wanted_ to say it back. That he couldn't get it out at the current moment was perfectly understandable, and Sylar was more than willing to give him the time that he needed to muster the courage again.

  
  


More than anything he wanted to dip his head those millimetres and encase Peter's delicious mouth once more, but he didn't. This was Peter's game, _he'd_ made the first move and Sylar would happily play by the man's rules if it would make him feel more comfortable. Instead he just devoured this extraordinary specimen before him with his eyes and continued fussing over the guy's hair with a tiny grin threatening to split his face. These next seconds were extremely fragile and he wasn't even sure if an exhilarated smile was allowed just yet, so he remained silent, basking in this dream come true while very slowly coming to terms with the fact that it was actually, indeed, once and for all, really happening.

  
  


Peter let himself be groomed, then one hand appeared to stroke the back of Sylar's head and neck tentatively, almost experimentally. “So... what happens now?” The empath huffed, his rich voice betraying the emotions that his face was struggling to hold back. “Can you really get us outta here, or was that just a line to force me to think things over?” He mumbled, a hopeful smile hidden behind the broken corner of his mouth.

  
  


Revelling in his newfound freedom, Sylar dared to slide his hands down to Peter's waist and around his back. He tugged him forward until they stood flush against one another, touching him because he doubted anyone was going to tell him not to.

  
  


He took a calming breath, just in case Peter would still be angry with him. “It's true.” He confessed, marvelling in the real heat of a living, breathing body underhand and the magical fingers tickling his own neck. All it had taken was one fresh taste of this drug to get him addicted again in an instant. Peter accepted the news without incident, and so Sylar braved another step. “But who says we have to leave just yet? Like you once asked me: why can't we be selfish... just this once...?”

  
  


Why not make the most of the situation Matt had been kind enough to supply them with? Despite the telepathic cop's best efforts, in the end he had only succeeded in trapping Sylar alone with the only person he cared about in the entire universe, who was now reciprocating his feelings at last. And how many people actually got to experience their biggest wish in person?

  
  


Peter pulled back a few inches to survey him clearer, brow dimpled in a little questioning frown. “What're you saying...?” Wide eyes drank in Sylar's expression. He was read like a book, despite his best attempts to keep both his plan – and how badly he wanted it – impartial on his face in order to allow Peter to come to a decision on his own.

  
  


*

  
  


“You wanna _stay_ here?” He interpreted slowly, watching Sylar squirm and feeling his fingers grab at the small of his back, forming a tingling knot in Peter's navel. He didn't even need a verbal answer to fully confirm it. Yes. Sylar wanted to stay here in this empty world with him. “For... for how long?” He asked breathlessly, allowing the full measure of that thought to sweep him away. No obligations or expectations, no enemies or disasters to avert, nobody who needed helping and so nobody to let down... just him and Sylar. Alone. With nothing to get in the way.

  
  


Was it wrong of him to want to stay here while there was so much in the outside world that he probably should be thinking of? How many people would die that he could have saved? Or what about Claire? His niece had just lost her father, and even though Peter hadn't heard from her in a long while, losing her only uncle too wasn't exactly inconsequential. And of course there was Angela – could Peter really rid her of her only remaining family member?

  
  


“Just a little while.” Sylar whispered, shoulders tense and great eyebrows soft. He looked scared all of a sudden, as if he expected to be shot down. “Just a year.” He amended quickly. “Or a month. A week? A day...?” He asked it tentatively, unsure, kneading Peter's back muscles all the while, and it was that slight hesitation and the genuine space left for Peter's opinion that helped the paramedic make his mind up.

  
  


When faced with that expression, an earnest one of child-like hope and besotted affection, Peter didn't even stand a chance. It was the same expression that face had worn on an afternoon long ago, when Peter had made up his couch for an unwitting guest and they'd sat side by side for the first amicable moment in their shared past. It had been that very evening, faced with _that_ very expression, that Peter had passed the point of no return. And here he was, still hurtling forward down this path without looking back.

  
  


Staying a little longer couldn't do that much harm, really... the world could survive on it's own for a while, right? It wasn't like Peter even made that much of a difference by himself after all, or at least as much as he wished he did. And as for Sylar... well... nobody would complain of his absence, anyway.

  
  


Heart fluttering, Peter nodded his head, agreeing to the other man's suggestion although his voice was well and truly stuck in his throat. And at last Peter let a self-conscious smile possess his mouth, then he stood up on tiptoe, held Sylar's face and softly tugged the man's plush lips with his own.

  
  


It was an imitation of their first kiss, in this same exact spot, but this kiss was rough and desperate: all racing hearts and clinging fingers, ripe with so much conflict and heartbreak that hadn't been there last time. But it was perfect. Peter sank back into it easily, as if it had been only yesterday when he'd last let himself fall into these arms. He trembled all over, his stomach had twisted itself inside out and he couldn't even feel his legs, but through it all he kept holding onto Sylar, kissing him more roughly than he used to, and it salved an ache deep inside him. Most importantly, it felt _right_ , and the last echoes of his doubts evaporated in the steam generated between the burning couple.

  
  


He remembered a time long past yet never to come, when this man had greeted him in the future with their very first embrace; he remembered the last time he'd been atop this bridge, when he and Gabriel had shared their first kiss; and he remembered lying at the base of a staircase when gentle lips had brought him back to life... and they did so again this very second.

  
  


He nuzzled his nose against Sylar's as their tongues caressed, suddenly aware of yet another momentous part of his life taking place atop a great height. Now that he thought about it, there weren't many of them where this guy wasn't involved in some way or another. And now here they were again, two men swept up in the undeniable orbit of destiny since the first moment they'd met, unable to kill each other, unable to live apart.

  
  


*

  
  


All Sylar had ever wanted (in all of his reincarnations) was to be loved. To be accepted for who he was. He'd hunted futilely for that appreciation from his mother, from Elle, from Arthur and Angela Petrelli when they had lied and promised him a family... from anyone who would listen or even give him a chance. He'd tried to change for them all so many times, he'd been played, manipulated and used for his power by every single one of them until he'd been scarred beyond ever trusting again.

  
  


And then Peter had taken a chance on Gabriel. This compassionate, merciful man had been the first one, the _only_ one to ever care for him and tell him that he was enough just as he was. That first sip of heavenly sweet nectar had been enough to give Sylar hope in himself. And now that Peter had returned to him, was physically here in his arms once again: rocking against him, kissing his lips and holding him close, there was no doubt in Sylar's mind that he had found what he'd been looking for.

  
  


Finally, he could hold in his hands the very thing that had evaded him for his entire life... and it wasn't unmatched, god-like power to wield over mere mortals. He didn't crave that anymore. He didn't need it at all. The only thing Sylar hungered for now was Peter Petrelli: his best friend, his saviour, his hero.

  
  


Complete at long last, the former villain – Gabriel, Sylar – wasted no time in cradling that scalding body and wordlessly expressing his gratitude, his love, and all the promises he had to offer as the sun finally dipped below the horizon behind them.

  
  


*

  
  


Only when their lungs were dying and their lips were raw did they break apart for air, panting shyly, both faces scarlet to match the clouds above them. Not one more word was exchanged. The pair just hugged again, sharing shaky breaths and racing heartbeats in the centre of this huge, wide world crafted for two. They didn't even need to talk ...they had an eternity to do so after all, if they so chose to borrow one...

  
  


The two silhouettes swayed beneath crimson skies, finally together in this reprieve that nobody could take from them this time. This was what they'd been working for; this was what Gabriel had died to permit; what Sylar had killed him to get; what every interaction had been leading up to all this time. Peter blissfully rode every second, wanting nothing more than to stay here like this. Because as soon as he stepped back they'd be stabbed in the gut with the many issues left to resolve between them, and they'd need to start working their way through all the problems that couldn't be tackled by hugs and kisses alone. But that would come later. For now, it was perfect.

  
  


This relationship sure as hell wasn't going to be easy, and the empath would never let go of his beloved Nathan or what was done to him by the man Peter was helplessly in love with, yet who he still hadn't quite forgiven. He was set adrift in the sea of crashing emotions with no map, no boat and no certainty of rescue. All he had to guide him was trust.

  
  


And so Peter trusted – fate, destiny, Sylar, it didn't really matter – for he trusted with all his heart. He didn't care about later, he cared about _right now_ , this haven of loving arms that he'd fight to the death to preserve for even one minute longer. Everything else paled in comparison, everything else could wait. For how could he waste even a second when this moment was worth any price, and the time left to pay it was endless?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I don't even know what to say now! Nooooo! DX It's finished. The end. And I'm so not sure how to process that quite yet. Anyway, I have a few quick (or okay, maybe not that quick) things I want to say here ^.^
> 
> I guess most importantly: I really, truly, with all my heart hope you, the readers, enjoyed the ending, and the entire story after sticking with me, Peter, Gabriel and Sylar through everything <3 This fic has been my first multi-chapter, and it's been a blast talking to you guys and reading all your lovely, sweet, heart-warming reviews throughout the very fun, exhausting process. I can't thank you enough! X) 
> 
> I'm sad that this story is over now, but don't worry – I'm not done with Peter and Sylar yet, so please don't forget about me ^.^ 
> 
> I really hope this story continues to make people happy (or sad, or furious, or heartbroken hehe, but most importantly happy), and it will be here for you for as long as you need it. Okay, now I'm almost done, I promise :P What else can I say except – thank you all, again, for making this a truly rewarding experience. <3
> 
> FieryEclipse  
> x

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it ^.^ As always, comments welcome! (Seriously though :P)
> 
> I'm planning a few more chapters to come. It might take a while between uploads, but please bare with me :D


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